


How Deep The Rabbit Hole Goes

by Detochkina



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Criminal Drama, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mystery, Pining, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:24:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 69,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1399588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Detochkina/pseuds/Detochkina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the untimely death of his father, Arthur Pendragon's left in charge of the family company and he is a mess in every sense of the word. When his sister Morgana offers him a harmless herbal remedy to help him deal with his stress, she unwittingly starts a downward spiral in Arthur’s world  - just as Arthur’s love life seems to look up after meeting Merlin, a pyrotech hired for Morgana’s party.<br/>Dreams turn to confusion, confusion to paranoia, until Arthur is forced to pick up the broken pieces of his reality and try to fit them back together - but that's not an easy task when everyone, including Arthur himself, doubts his sanity.</p><p>  <i>“Arthur, look at me. This person -- Merlin? You say he’s your boyfriend--”</i><br/><i>“We’re dating, so of course he’s my boyfriend!”</i><br/><i>“And you say he was introduced to you by Morgana?”</i><br/><i> “Yes! Ask her!”</i><br/><i>“Arthur, we already spoke to Morgana. She insists she's never met a Merlin in her life. Merlin doesn’t exist.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Story written for [Merlin Reverse Big Bang](http://merlinreversebb.livejournal.com/).  
> I'd like thank my super-star crew:  
>  **My Artist** : [Candymacaron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candymacaron/works). Amazing, amazing talent and a great collaborator! Her beautiful drawing of Arthur and Merlin in leotards was what started all this madness. Look, Candy, where we are now! I hope I did your brilliance justice. It's been a wonderful experience for me, thank you! Please check Candy's art and leave some love for her [here](http://candymacaron.livejournal.com/15593.html)!  
>  **My betas** : [M](https://twitter.com/EditsandSnark), the best beta in a world and just a perfect person in every way (I would marry you if I wasn't already taken!) and [Daroh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/pseuds/daroh/works), the sweetest friend you can ever have, and a person with superb taste. I cannot express in words how much your support means to me. Bless your hearts for being my friends!  
>  **MY pre-readers:**  Wonderful, patient, assertive [Mara](http://archiveofourown.org/users/childliketendencies/pseuds/childliketendencies/works), who also helped me with the summary, and [Peach](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EachPeachPearPlum/works) for speedy help and very encouraging flailing. Thank you for picking through my unconvincing use of British English. You're awesome!  
> Also, special thank you to [chosenfire28](http://chosenfire28.livejournal.com/) for running this great fest!
> 
> Everything in this is story is as fictional as any fiction can fictionally come. I mean, it's allllll fiction. Yes, I totally spent unhealthy amount of time reading about totally unhealthy things, and as a result, some things maaaaay look plausible. The rest... errrrr... have I mentioned fictional?  
> Please read the warnings for any triggers. 

 

**PART I**

 

**June 25th, 2013**

 

“Where am I?”

“Bethlem Royal Hospital.”

“Uh… Bedlam? A place for nutters?”

“More like a special facility.”

“Is this some sort of a prank?”

“No. Your sister and your former physician were concerned about you.”

“Morgana?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m concerned about her, too. I don’t see Morgana anywhere here.”

“You had an episode, Arthur.”

“An episode… What?”

“How are you feeling, Arthur?”

“It depends... My head hurts. And… What’s wrong with my hand?”

"You have a first degree burn. It’ll heal. You also fell and suffered a blow in the head. You resisted help later, quite violently, so we gave you something to ease the pain and calm down. You don't remember?"

“No… I’m-- I don’t know…”

“It’s all right. Give it time. Here’s some water for you. Do you know what day it is?

"Oh... How long have I been here?"

“Since this morning."

"What time is it now?"

"Almost five o’clock in the afternoon.”

“So… Is it Tuesday?”

“Are you guessing?”

“Is this some sort of a test to prove I’m soft in the head?”

“Not at all. I’m just trying to determine your current state.”

“My current state is shite. Obviously. I still don’t understand… Mr… Who are you?”

“My name is Doctor Alator. It says so on my tag.”

“Yes, fine. Can't say it's a pleasure. I need my clothes back and where's my mobile? I'd like to go home now."

“Not yet. I need you to answer some questions.”

“Are you a doctor or the police?”

“I’m your assigned healthcare provider, and I am not trying to interrogate you. You are perfectly safe here. Anything you tell me is confidential, Arthur, so you don’t need to worry.”

“Yes, that made me instantly relaxed. So what will it take for me to get out of here?”

“We plan to observe you for at least seventy-two hours, possibly more. During your stay, you’ll have to comply with all my orders, including taking proper meals, naps, and medication as necessary, and talking to me. How are you feeling?”

“I’m not hungry. I refuse to be sedated again. And I didn’t sign up to be dissected by some shrink. I demand an explanation as to why I’m here.”

“Who is Merlin, Arthur?”

“Mer-- Merlin is my boyfriend.”

“How did you meet him?”

“At a party.

“When?”

“Three… no, four weeks ago?”

“You’re not sure? Take your time, think about it.”

“I don’t need time to think about it. I met him almost a month ago at Morgana’s party.”

“So Morgana knows Merlin?”

“Of course she knows Merlin! We met through her! Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“Arthur, I need you to sit down and calm yourself.

“ _You_ calm yourself. You can’t keep me here against my will.”

“The episode you suffered from--”

“I didn’t suffer from anything! What are you talking about?”

“Arthur, look at me. This person -- Merlin? You say he’s your boyfriend--”

“We’re dating, so of course he’s my boyfriend!”

“And you say he was introduced to you by Morgana?”

 “Yes! Ask her!”

“Arthur, we already spoke to Morgana. She insists she's never met a Merlin in her life. Merlin doesn’t exist.”

 

 

**May 21st, 2013**

  

“Arthur, you can’t be late.”

Arthur winces at Gwen’s barely-contained fury in the overhead speaker. He shifts the clutch, sending his Panamera into the next gear. The engine roars and the car kicks up, flying into the middle lane where there’s less traffic.

Arthur murmurs, “Good girl,” lovingly thumbing the wheel. The only girl in his life, and he wouldn’t change a thing about her.

“Arthur!” Gwen reminds him. “Do you hear me?”

“Five minutes won’t make a difference. Just bring them more scones... Oh, and feel free to add some laxatives into their jam. They could use it.” He yawns.

“Oh my god, you _arse_ \--”

Arthur disconnects the call.

Gwen used to be his father’s assistant, and Arthur can bet any money she’d never talked to Uther Pendragon that way. Granted, Uther Pendragon had never been late to a single event in his life. With one exception -- to his own funeral. Thanks to Arthur. Who was so drunk, the wake had to be postponed by two hours, and it took great measures for Gwen to bring Arthur to a state acceptable to be seen in public. He wobbled, and slurred, and waved off when was asked to give an eulogy. Everyone thought he was too devastated to speak. They thought he was _crying._

Fools.

“Ready?” Sometimes he talks to himself. He steps on the brakes and veers the car into the spot in front of the building with his name on it. Well, his father’s name, but that’s just a technicality and easily fixable. He just never was arsed before. It’s time now. He dials his phone.

“Gwen,” he says, ignoring her, _Thank God, Arthur! Where are you? Are you close?_ on the other end. “See that my name is sorted and proper on my parking spot.”

“What?”

“Uther’s name is still here. I want it changed.”

“What are you talking about? Arthur, the board--”

Arthur hangs up and presses his security badge to the card reader at the entrance. 

He tosses the car keys on Gwen’s table as soon as he steps out of the lift and stalks in the direction of his office.

“Arthur!” She runs after him and makes an attempt to intercept him.

He stops, looking down at her with a frown -- at the carefully parted hair at the crown of her head and a fallen lash trembling on her cheek -- when she hisses, “You’re unforgivably late. I’m not making any more excuses for you--”

He has half a mind to pick the eyelash off and tell her to make a wish, but reconsiders. God knows what she’d ask for; judging by the angry spark in her dark eyes, she’d probably wish for some particularly elaborated suffering for him. He can’t take such chance...

“Arthur, wake up already,” she demands, “you _have_ to be there. The board--”

“Will wait. Let me take off my coat.”

“You don’t have a coat!”

“Well, then. Have a bloody clue, Gwen, and allow me into my office.”

“But--”

“Arthur!”

Arthur turns around. And smiles. “Gaius, hello.”

“Let Ms Smith do her job, Arthur. She can’t do yours as well.”

Arthur suppresses a desire to mimic him and roll his eyes. “Why, the vultures sent you after me, did they?”

Gaius raises his brow.

“Go back there, Gaius. I’m dealing with this.”

“It doesn’t look like you are, Arthur. Your father would never pay such disrespect to his people. If you don’t show up there today, the board will have to postpone this meeting.”

“Brilliant! Let them!” He turns to Gwen. “Anything else on my schedule for today?”

“Arthur, be reasonable!” Gaius grabs his shoulder. He has a surprisingly strong grip for an old bloke. “Your presence is important. You already skipped it last month.”

“Yeah, well, I was too distraught after my father’s death.” Arthur juts his chin.

“It’s been months, Arthur. You spent that week on Lake Como, partying!” Gwen hisses, and, darting her eyes around, leans closer to him and hushes her tone. “I had to pay off the hotel after you trashed two rooms with your mates, you daft prick.”

“You can’t talk to me like that. You’re my employee.”

Gwen’s nostril flare; she closes her mouth and straightens, her eyes narrowed to slits. Her lips have never been this thin. 

“Yes, Mr Pendragon. You’re right, Mr Pendragon,” she says after an unbearably long stare-down. “I can’t.” She slams a folder against Arthur’s chest. “Take this, _sir_. The agenda for today’s meeting, and if you don’t need it, you can shove it up your ar--”

Gaius gasps. “Gwen!”

“No. I don’t need this job. I’m done.” Gwen smooths down her hair, her jacket, and starts walking away.

Gaius catches her by the elbow. “Gwen, please. I beg you. He’s really just a petulant child who needs guidance.”

“Oi!” Arthur has to object to that.

Gaius raises a finger at him in warning, and turns back to Gwen. “Please. He needs you.”

Arthur snorts.

“Look.” Gaius clasps his hands over Gwen's. “How about you take the rest of the day off? Take a holiday. Gwen, please. Arthur, apologise! Start acting like an adult already!”

Arthur closes his eyes, letting the world make a quick, dizzying spin around him. He takes a deep breath.

“Very well, then,” he says, leveling his eyes with Gwen’s unwavering stare. “You win.”

“That’s it?” Gaius demands. “That’s no way to apologise for being atrocious to people who support you.”

Gwen turns to Gaius. “Could you please give us a moment?”

“Of course.” He smiles at her, his expression changing to admonishing when he addresses Arthur next. “We’ll be waiting. Don’t let me down, boy.”

Arthur grins and bends closer to his face. “Too late.”

Gwen jerks Arthur by his sleeve and pulls him into the empty conference room across the hallway.

She closes the door behind him and stares at him. Arthur crosses his arms on his chest.

“God, Arthur, I hate you,” she says, shaking her head. “I really do. You’re such an arse.”

“I know.”

“Then stop it. Enough already. Gaius wants what’s best for you.”

“I reckon everyone does.”

“I know what you’re doing right now. It won’t work on me.”

“I want to be left alone. I'm not gonna do it.”

“You don’t mean that. I know you don’t. You’re just a little nervous. But, Arthur, you’ve spent months preparing -- this is your chance. Today.” She pushes herself off the door and steps closer. “You’re fine. You can do this.”

Pressing his lips together, Arthur stares at the glass wall matted with the company’s logo on it.

Gwen sighs and touches his cheek to make him look at her. “Arthur, if you don't feel you can, that’s fine. Skip the presentation, but please… You’re making it worse for yourself here, you know that. You have to show up today. Would you like some water? Tea? Anything?”

Arthur meets Gwen’s concerned eyes and wonders how he must look to her right now. Probably not great. He sighs.

“Is Morgana there?” he asks.

“Of course.”

“How is she?”

“You have to ask? Furious. Prepare to have your arse handed to you in a sore state.”

Arthur smiles. “Do both of you take special classes on how to torture me alive?”

“Weekly. At the company’s expense.” Gwen places her hands on Arthur’s shoulders.

“You’ll be fine, Arthur. Morgana deserves to see it, and she’ll support you. You can do it. Now go, please.” She fixes his crooked tie and smooths the lapels of his jacket.

“Yeah.” Arthur gives her his signature blinding grin and kisses her forehead; she leans into it.

“Oh, you," she whispers. "Good luck. Break a leg.”

 

~*~

 

Arthur does feel like breaking something by the end of the hour. Maybe flip a table or two, if they weren’t bolted to the floor.

“I believe the proper name for it is _idealistic,_ ” Agravaine, his uncle and a senior member of the board, says in his usual patronising tone that makes every muscle on Arthur’s face twitch. “Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that, but Arthur, you have to realise we are not a charity organisation. We have a business to run.”

Arthur unclenches his jaw. “This _is_ business. That is, we make prescription drugs, they are expensive, if we want physicians to prescribe them to their patients,  we need to make sure those patients can afford them. If the patients don’t come to us, they’ll go to our competitors. Besides, this program will be tax-deductible for us.”

“Taxes?” interjects Odin Wenham, the financial officer of the company. “What do you know about taxes? Let me and my guys worry about what’s deductible and what’s not.”

“Let me remind you, Mr Wenham, that I own fifty-one percent of this company. It’s _my_ company, and it’s my job to worry about every part of it,” Arthur says, putting as much steel into his voice as he can muster.

“Maybe that’s the problem,” retorts Odin.

“What are you\--”

“Arthur,” Morgana, his half-sister and the only person in this room besides Gaius who’s ever supported him on the board, says softly. “We are at the end of fiscal year. We’ve already allocated the funds for all the programmes this year. Our budgetary decisions always happen in March, as you know, and voting happens in April. You didn’t submit your request when it was due. This program sounds amazing, but it will be expensive. It will be the kind of money we simply can’t provide at the end of the year without hurting other important initiatives.”

“You can’t vote without me,” Arthur protests, focusing his eyes on Morgana, everything else around her turning into blur.

Morgana’s sincere gaze meets his and she opens her mouth again, but Agravaine interrupts her. “And we haven’t. But you can’t keep missing these meetings, Arthur. Thank our lucky stars you made it this time, because we absolutely must have your vote on the proposed budget today. We’re facing the final deadline after which we’d have to take drastic measures. So, please, work with us here.”

“Well, I need more time to review said proposed budget,” Arthur says stubbornly. If they want to play games, he can play one too.

“You can stall all you want, Mr Pendragon,” Odin says and takes a sip from the glass of water in front of him, “but then, an unapproved budget means no research and development on new products lines, no work on extending lines for existing drugs, we’ll have to start letting our employees go. So... Your call.”

Clutching the remote control for the projector in his hand, Arthur turns to the screen and stares at the last slide with the Pendragon PH logo on it. He knew. That’s why he didn’t want to come here today. He’d lose his sleep for months, working on it, lay out his dreams in front of these people, reveal the idea he’s been nursing since his uni days, and they’d stomp all over it.

He clicks the power button on the remote, turning off the projector.

“Fine,” he says.

“But we can always come back to it next year,” Morgana offers quickly.

They didn’t even put it up for a vote to add it to the company’s road map, so Arthur doubts that’s going to happen.

“Good idea, Morgana,” Agravaine says cheerfully. “Arthur, send your business proposal to me. We’ll keep it in mind. And when the time comes--”

“Right.” Arthur shuts his laptop with a loud click.

So much for fifty-one percent.

“I’m sorry, my boy,” Gaius says softly, patting his shoulder on the way out of the already-empty conference room; Arthur missed when everyone left. “Keep working on it.”

Arthur nods, rubbing his forehead.

“Arthur?” Morgana’s breath against his ear startles him; he blinks a few times and looks at her. “Are you all right there?”

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, wiping his palms against his trousers.

“You don’t look it, though,” she says, her bright green eyes round with concern. “Are you sure? Did you sleep last night?”

“Not really, but I don’t think you’d want details on how I really spent it, would you?” he attempts to joke.

“As a member of the board, I can’t say I condone your behaviour,” she tells him in whole seriousness. “As your sister, all I can say is you’re a slut, Arthur Pendragon.”

“Ouch,” Arthur says.

“Just being honest.” She smiles.

“Brutally,” he intones.

“I worry, Arthur. Are you sure you’re all right?”

He grimaces. “Mostly.”

“Walk with me, brother,” Morgana says. “To mine.”

Arthur follows her into the large corner office with the nameplate “Morgana Pendragon. VP, Marketing and PR” on the door. A strong, sweet smell hits him as soon as he steps inside; the source of it are the incense sticks Morgana uses all the time. A miniature fountain’s babbling on the table, and an arrangement of bamboo branches is poking out of a large vase by the window. This is Morgana’s idea of feng shui and zen. It’s crap, and Arthur tries to refrain from taking a piss out of her for her taste. He just could never understand the appeal. Okay, maybe he did tease her a little sometimes, but who wouldn’t? She has a set of Laughing Buddhas placed in a perfect row on her desk, and she rubs their bellies “for luck” every day, for crying out loud. Arthur knocks one over whenever he leaves her office, by pure accident, of course.

For a person who markets drugs for a living -- or maybe because of it -- Morgana’s almost religious about herbal medicine and non-traditional healing, and he’s mentally preparing himself for another “your body is your temple” lecture.

“So?” he prompts, when her sharp gaze on him becomes too long to be comfortable. Sometimes he wonders if she reads minds or what.

“I’m sorry it didn’t go well today,” she offers.

“Yes, well, as expected,” he says, after a pause. He could swear she was going to say something entirely different.

“What did you think would happen?” she asks.

“I didn’t think.”

“That’s bollocks.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“You are not the only one with ideas, Arthur! I’m barely older than you, and the only woman on the board. Imagine how it is for _me_ to be there. I need--”

“Please, spare me the “woe is me” speech. You could’ve accepted the board’s offer last year and cashed out. You could’ve been doing your own thing by now.”

“You could’ve, too.”

“Yes, well…”

He means to say that that’s different and stops himself at the last moment, because it rankles Morgana that although she grew up in Uther’s house, treated like a part of the family, the truth about her parentage didn’t come out until Uther was diagnosed with cancer. And it was all about absolving his sins from there on out. Sometimes Arthur thinks Morgana would’ve been better off not knowing who her real father was. But that wasn’t his call, and his own feelings had no significance in the matter. A big part of him wanted nothing to do with the company built by his father, but then again, Arthur was a bloody Pendragon, and he wouldn’t give up one single percent of what was rightfully his to some old, posh plonkers who only ever cared about the bottom line and their own cushy behinds.  

“I want to make a difference, too, Arthur, and I need your help. Could you at least _try_?”

“Christ, Morgana.” Arthur closes his eyes. “What do you want from me?”

“I don’t know… Presence? Signs you actually care? Uther was always…”

“I don’t want to hear it. I can’t believe you sing his praises now.”

“He knew who he was and taught me some good lessons.”

“He was a dick, and we both know it. Why are we discussing him again? Can we just--” The room makes a gentle spin around him out of nowhere and he has to take a moment to breathe through it.

“God, Arthur, are you okay?”

When he cautiously opens his eyes again, she’s in front of him with the glass of water. He drinks it with a shaky hand. “It’s just… It’s…” Any explanation eludes him.

“Keep drinking,” Morgana orders, and watches him, tapping her chin. “Now listen.” She takes the empty glass from his hand and goes to her desk. “I’m gonna give you something.” She opens the drawer, pulls out a white envelope, and extends it to him. “It will help your chi.”

"My what?"

"Your inner essence. Your nerves, if you will."

“Morg--”

“It’s herbal. Absolutely harmless. Does wonders, though. I swear by it.”

“Remedy for all ills?” He takes the envelope and glances inside. There are about ten little green-ish pills. They do look like supplemental vitamins from a health store. He sniffs it -- and smell like it, too. He shrugs. If Morgana isn't lying and he can have a night or two drooling on his pillow having sweet dreams, it might worth it. “Sure.”

“Of course it’s not a cure. I still think you need to see someone. If you want to talk to Gaius--”

“I don’t. He’s like a mother hen in trousers. It’s annoying.”

Morgana laughs. “He is, isn’t he?” Then, more serious, “You should take care of yourself, Arthur. And you shouldn’t give up. They’ll listen to you, but you need to be consistent in your message.”

Arthur smirks. “Look at you. All wise and poised. Must be the pills.”

“It’s not that. You’re the only person I trust here. I need you. I need to be able to rely on you.”

He doesn’t blame her for sounding sad and disappointed. He would be, too, in her place.

“You’re asking too much, dear sister. I’m only human.”

“Humans don’t have dark circles that look like shiners all the time.”

“Part-time racoon?” he suggests, blinking rapidly and scrunching his face into what he thinks a raccoon must look like.

“Full-time fool,” she says confidently. “Tell you what. Go home, take half a pill, have a kip. _Alone._ Go play footie in the afternoon, have a nice dinner, take a long shower before bed. Watch telly or whatever else you blokes normally do.”

“After dinner and a long shower, in front of a telly? You don’t want to know,” he teases.

Morgana lets out an exasperated breath, although smiling. “Like I said -- fool. Take one full pill before bed; you’ll be thanking me tomorrow. In fact, you should thank me now."

“Why is that?”

“Because I’m having a party on Saturday for my charity, and you’re invited, although you don’t deserve it.”

“I’m most flattered, my beloved sister. Although we all know you just want my money.”

“Oh, just go away already, I have things to market.”

“And I have…  a shower with pressure balance from heaven.”  

“How is life fair?”

“It’s not. You should do something about it, you know,” he suggests with sincere expression.

“Oh I am, my dear brother, I most certainly am.”

 

~*~

 

Back in his office, Arthur spends a long time bouncing a stress ball off the wall while thinking. Then, he picks up a phone and dials the number. It goes into voicemail.

He pokes his head outside the door. “Gwen, is Leon around?”

“Not sure, I can check. Why? Maybe I can help?”

Arthur taps his fingers on the door frame. “Not with this. Please get me Leon.”

Leon is the head of security at Pendragon PH, and Arthur’s old friend. Gwen dated Leon before she met Lancelot. Leon isn’t one of those “kiss and tell” guys, so Arthur is still fuzzy on the details of their break-up, but judging by Gwen’s downcast eyes and quiet, “All right, Arthur,” they still haven’t patched things up. He should probably invite them to Morgana’s party, get them drunk, and make them talk it out. It always worked before. Lancelot seems like a nice guy, but Arthur can’t have his two best friends not talking and disliking each other.

Leon raps on Arthur’s door.

“Get in,” Arthur tells him. “Shut the door.”

Leon crosses the room in two long strides and sits in front of Arthur.

“Is something wrong?”

“Not yet,” Arthur responds, squeezing the ball in his hand. “But I think I’d rather be prepared.”

Leon shifts on his chair. “All right. What do you need?"

“Nothing outrageous. I need full bio on our board.”

“You mean…”

“Yes, their files.”

“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?” Leon takes his mobile out of his pocket. “You could’ve just sent me an email.”

Arthur leans forward and stops Leon’s hand with the phone. “I realise that.” They meet each other's eyes. “Nothing in particular. Just when they started, where they worked prior, how many years before retirement… Bank accounts.”

“I see,” Leon says after a moment. “All right, boss, will do. I take it you’d want hard copies.”

“You’re catching on.”

“All of them?”

“Without exception.”

“Is Monday noon okay?”

“Yes, that’s fine. Thank you, Leon.”

“You got it, Arthur.”

Arthur smiles in thanks.

“Oh, Leon,” he says when Leon’s already opening the door. “How’s your Saturday night looking? Have anything planned?”

Leon thinks for a moment and shakes his head. “Nothing I recall.”

“Then be at Morgana’s at seven. We haven’t done this for a while.”

“Done what?” Leon asks.

“You know, a proper get-together. You, me…”

“Sounds good.”

“Gwen, a few other mates.” 

Leon’s hand freezes on the handle. “Gwen?”

“Yeah. Bring your plus one, if you’d like.”

Leon forces a smile. “And here I was, hoping to be your date.”

Arthur snorts. “We both know you don’t swing that way. And sorry, mate, I wouldn’t trade my cock for anything else in the world.”

Leon laughs. “No way to resolve that predicament, is there?”

“‘Fraid not. But… still mates?” Arthur smiles innocently.

“I can live with that. Monday at noon, you’ll have the report delivered to you by me personally.”

“Good deal.” Arthur salutes Leon and resumes the stress ball squeezing.

  

~*~

 

It’s already dark outside when Arthur leaves the office. As he drives his Panamera off, he glances in the rear-view mirror and sees his sister leaving the building and walking down to a car waiting at the kerb. As she steps close, the door swings open; Morgana leans over, saying something with a laugh, and slides in. Arthur tries to make out the person behind the wheel, but it’s too dark and too far to be able to tell.

He almost forgets about the pill. But then, he falls into his bed, exhausted and yet alert, which is the story of his existence, remembering why he brings people home to spend the night. He really hates to be alone. He hates closing his eyes and seeing Uther’s yellow, waxy face in the coffin. His grey eyebrows, blue lips and sharp chin, jutting out of the collar of a white shirt. It always brings out entirely different, very old, and yet still vivid memories. His mom’s ashen face on the pillow, thin and ridden with the tired lines of a person who’s already given up but at peace with her fate. Arthur was five when she passed away, and as terrible as it is, the image of his dying mum lying on the hospital bed, small and weightless, appears to be his earliest memory.

Arthur leaves the bed and staggers into the closet, where he pats his jacket for the envelope.

The pill’s already on the tip of his tongue and the glass of water is in his hand when he’s hit by a fit of conscience, telling him he should’ve at least called Gaius, who -- although hasn’t been practising medicine for some time, devoting his time to Uther and his company and now to his kids as an advisor -- still has a medical degree.

But his hand with the glass moves to his mouth on its own volition and next thing, he’s already swallowing the pill with a mouthful of water. Too late now.

 

 

**May 22nd, 2013**

 

He wakes up on his own, at dawn. Staring at the lazily spinning fan on the ceiling, he comes out of it slowly, the fog clouding his mind retreating reluctantly, and he’s still too sleepy to do something about it. It feels good to just... be.

The clock shows half past seven, and Arthur’s surprised. He had five hours of uninterrupted, absolutely dreamless sleep. It might be not be a lot to some people, but for Arthur, it’s a big improvement. He licks his lips, flexes his jaw, and stretches out so deliciously, he hears a few vertebrae pop. His mouth is a bit cottony, his limbs are a bit too heavy, but overall, he feels like a human being -- or close to it. There’s something to be said about a good night’s sleep. Morgana might be onto something here.

His house in Eaton square is equipped and stocked so well, he probably never needs to go outside. But he feels like jogging and having a nice cuppa on the terrace of his favourite coffee shop on the corner of Ebury and Elizabeth. It’s posh as expected for this neighbourhood, but he likes it for their always toasted-just-right Poilane bread and fresh-out-of-the-oven pies. They know him there and are trained well enough not to look down at his sweaty zip tee and loose shorts. 

The barista smiles from behind the bar as soon as he steps in and calls, “Two boiled eggs and Earl Grey as usual?”

Arthur skates his glaze over the people sitting at the tables. Mostly men, with their business ties, espresso shots, and morning papers. They look important -- something Arthur could never grow into and has given up trying.

“Ah, bugger it,”  he tells the barista. “Add an order of strawberry flapjacks to it.”

“Live a little, right?” The barista winks at him.

Arthur grins.

The problem is, Arthur really doesn’t want to go to the office today. After yesterday’s presentation fiasco, just the thought of seeing Agravaine, Odin, and even Gaius so soon again gives his heart a kick in his chest and his palms break out in sweat. It’s bad. It’s bad that he can’t control his body and his never-quiet mind, and even little things like this set him off.

A steaming cup of freshly brewed tea and three flapjacks swimming in butter divert his racing thoughts to something more pleasant and immediate -- filling up his belly. He tucks in.

 

~*~

 

It’s already eleven when he shows up at the office, and Gwen actively ignores him. Of course, now that he needs something from her, that won’t do. He places a small box with a neat bow on it in front of her and plants himself on the corner of her desk, crinkling the papers with his arse. She flicks her eyes at the mess he’s creating, then at the box, and goes back to typing.

“Ah, I see a smile. There, there,” he leans over the desk and pokes Gwen in the cheek, right into the dimple.

She tries to keep her face straight. “Just because I’m smiling, doesn’t mean I’m not mad at you. I had to cancel yet another meeting for you this morning. It’s embarrassing.”

“I know, but I brought you your favourite from Tomtom,” Arthur coaxes. “Blueberry pie. M-m-m.”

“You are the worst boss ever. Do you have any clue how to be one?”

“You know I don’t. But you still love me,” he suggests, pushing the box closer to her.

“I _tolerate_ you. I swear I’ll leave you at the first opportunity,” she promises, and slaps Arthur’s hand when he pulls at the bow.

“Ouch,” he complains. “We both know you’ve plenty of opportunities.”

“And look how grateful you are.”

“Am I not?” he asks, handing her a plastic spoon.

“Pftt,” she says, plucking the bow off herself and looking inside of the box.

Arthur laughs when she moans at the first bite.

“Prove it,” she asks with her mouth full.

“Morgana’s having a charity ball, and you’re invited as a guest.”

Gwen chews thoughtfully and shakes her head. “No. I’ll end up running around taking care of you lot, like I always do. You Pendragons can’t help it.”

“What if I tell you Nadine Shah will be there?

Gwen’s eyes grow the size of saucers. “No.”

“Yes. And she’ll sing your favourite. She said she would.”

“You know her?”

“I know everybody. We Pendragons can’t help it.”

“You are incorrigible, Arthur.” With expression turned dreamy, she takes another bite.

“Part of my charm. So, you’re coming, right?”

The phone starts ringing on the desk, and, swallowing quickly, Gwen picks it up and waves at him, mouthing to bugger off.

Arthur folds his hands in namaste, bowing, and buggers off as instructed.

 

 

**June 26th, 2013**

 

“How do you feel today, Arthur?”

“Just peachy... You _drugged_ me. _Again_.”

“You wouldn’t calm down; it's always the last resort. I’m sorry it came down to that.”

“Would you stay calm if someone told you that the person you were dating didn’t exist?”

“I can’t answer that question.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve never been in such a situation.

“You mean you’ve never lost your cool or you have never made up a person?”

“So you agree you made your boyfriend up?”

“I _didn’t._ He is _real._ And I don’t care what you think.”

“Unfortunately, you should.”

“You can’t keep me here against my will.”

“Not unless you’re deemed a danger to yourself or others.”

“I’m not-- Fuck. I’m not dangerous!”

“Arthur, please sit down.”

“I want to be the fuck out of this bloody place!”

“And you can be. But first, we need to sort out a few things.”

“Somebody put you up to it. I can tell. Somebody-- What are you writing there?”

“I’m taking notes... Oh... Are you not going to talk to me now?”

“You can lock me up, you can jam meds into me, but you can’t force me to talk.”

“No, I wasn’t going to force you to do anything. And it’s a fairly simple process you’re refusing to see. If you want to be out of here, I’m your best chance to help. It’s in your best interest to cooperate.”

“How?”

“Tell me what you think triggered your episode.”

“Which one?”

“There was more than one?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you’re writing something again. There were no episodes!”

“Arthur. _Sit_. _Down_ … Thank you... I’m asking what triggered your behaviour yesterday morning. Why did you feel the need to threaten the executive board of your company with a weapon?”

“What?”

“Half of them filed an official police report. Do you understand what that means?”

“That they want me either in jail or in the asylum? How convenient. It’s no news to me, by the way. They think they’re subtle.”

“What do you mean?”

“I own the majority of shares of the company. _My_ company. They’re setting me up so I relinquish my rights to it.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit\--”

“Paranoid? Possible. Wouldn’t you be if someone tried to make you believe you’ve gone bonkers?”

“Why do you think anyone would do that to you?”

“Simple. Money. Power.”

“They’re after you because they don’t have enough money or power?”

“Is there ever such a thing?”

“I don’t know, Arthur, you tell me. I wasn’t the one swinging a twelfth-century relic in a room full of scared people.”

"I have no idea what you’re talking about. And even if I did, those scared people can eat both of us for breakfast and not bat a lash. I’m inconvenient because I know their secrets. Even my own sister, well, half-sister, has been hiding things from me."

"It sounds like something from a bad thriller. Arthur--"

"You don’t know the half of it. These people are betraying me and Morgana. Did you know that one of them accosted Morgana?"

"Something improper?"

"Yes, she was sixteen at the time and he was married. He later denied everything and my father believed him."

"I’m sorry. How did Morgana react?"

"She ran away from home. And when we found her a week later, she begged my father to not let the fucker take her. She was terrified.”

“What did you father say?”

“That she was being a typical teenage drama queen. That fucking pervert is still on the board of directors, and he keeps creeping around.. And Cenred, sneaky bastard-- Oh... bloody hell..."

"Arthur, are you all right? What’s wrong?"

"I’m fine, just a bit dizzy."

"Water?"

"My ears are ringing. I bet it’s the bloody meds you pumped into me last night.”

“Does your head hurt today?”

“I don’t know, a little?”

“We’ll check it out again. You’ve never felt dizzy before?”

“Not really. Well. Maybe once or twice?"

“Hmmm, that’s not what your sister says. And here, your former physician mentions--”

“Fine. Yes, I do feel queasy occasionally.”

"And when did it start? Remember, Arthur, I’m here to help."

"It's nothing big, like I said. I have trouble sleeping when I’m stressed. Lack of sleep makes me exhausted. Exhaustion makes me lose focus.”

“Have you been stressed lately?”

“Let’s see... My father had a bloody coronary in the middle of a board meeting six months ago, and overnight, I went from a perpetual heir to an actual owner of a Fortune 500 company. Would you consider that a stressful situation?"

“I am sorry for your loss. Would you like to talk about it? Do you need more water?”

“No, thank you… There’s nothing to talk about. My father was a bastard, and I never thought I'd be so relieved to see him gone. I think I'm more disturbed by how much I was _not_ upset. Yes, I lost sleep and, well, there might have been a few panic attacks. But that’s because there was too much at once and I wasn’t ready. I knew that eventually he’d want me to take his place-- it wasn’t even up for a discussion. Meaning, I was never given a choice, and somehow I thought I’d have more time to… I don’t know… change his mind? I was going to tell him I wasn’t interested in being the head of the company. But he conked unexpectedly and it happened so fast, I had no exit strategy. It was all too much and I kind of...”

“You didn't want to deal with it."

"Right."

"And I understand you engaged in some irresponsible behaviour.”

“You sound just like my father, Doc.”

“Do you disagree?”

“Well… no…”

“Have you taken any drugs in the past?”

“You mean recreationally?”

“If you’d like to call it that way…”

“Yeah. I have. Who hasn’t? Nothing outrageous, though. A few uppers here and there to tide me over during uni exams and there was that one time in January…  But nothing lately! I didn’t need it. Well, except for the over-the-counter sleeping aid. Didn’t you run a full blood work panel on me already? I’m sure by now you know every single instance of me toying with any illegal substance all the way through my sixth form, and we both know you wouldn’t be keeping me here if I were just some pushing-up druggie with daddy issues.”

“I’ve never been a fan of that label.”

“Which one, Doc -- 'druggie'?”

“No, ‘daddy issues’.”

“Do you prefer the term ‘father-fixated’?”

“By a small margin.”

“Well, I prefer to avoid any labels. Although, something tells me that ship has sailed for me already, what with me being locked up and considered delusional, right?”

“I think we’re getting somewhere, and it’s up to you how your stay here pans out.”

“You really know how to motivate your patients to do your bidding, don’t you?”

“Your best interest, remember, Arthur?”

“Yes, yes. Whatever… Tell me this, Doc. Have you ever had a dream that you were so sure was real? What if you were unable to wake from that dream? How would you know the difference between the dream world and the real world?”

“That’s fascinating, Arthur. You’re quite a poet.”

“I am? You think so, too?”

“Don’t be so smug. I’m familiar with the _Matrix_ , just like five billion other people. Quite a fan, actually.”

“Bollocks. And here I tried so hard to impress you.”

“I am impressed. Quoting Morpheus verbatim is a skill.”

“You flatter me.”

“And you’re stalling -- and therefore prolonging your stay here.”

“What do you want, Doctor Alator?”

“I want you to take a moment and think about the situation you’re in -- a serious situation. I want you to look around and assess it properly. You don’t want to be labelled for the rest of your life? You want me to believe that you didn’t suffer from a psychotic breakdown and it’s all just a big misunderstanding? You want me to believe Merlin is real? Then you need to stop hiding behind your witty comebacks, take responsibility, and actually talk to me. Can you do that? Your choice, Arthur.”    

“Fine… Okay... I _will_ tell you something, but on one condition."

"Yes?"

"You put your bloody pen down and listen. If you mean it about helping me. Just _listen_."

"All right, Arthur, no more notes. I promise to listen and not judge."

"Thank you. So… You were asking about any triggers… I am fairly certain my father’s passing has nothing to do with it -- I mean directly. And I think it all started at Morgana's party. See, she had those performers there."

"Performers… singers?"

"No, like a circus.”

“Interesting.”

“It wasn’t _Cirque Du Soleil_ stuff, of course -- even Morgana has limited resources -- but there was a lot of juggling, trampoline jumping, and knife throwing. And there were two blokes doing incredible lifts and supports. They were so flexible, I wasn’t sure if they had any bones in their bodies."

"I see. And what happened there?"

 

 

**May 25th, 2013**

 

Morgana’s parties are the stuff of legends.

She likes to throw them in the house she inherited from her mother and it’s located a short distance outside the city. It’s just the right size, which means it can fit a small army of people and accommodate the most extravagant events.

Last time, there were bloody synchronised swimmers performing in her indoor pool, and a champagne fountain installed on the terrace for the guests. Arthur doesn’t think Morgana can possibly top that.

She does.

He promised to arrive early, and as he approaches her house just past five o’clock, he notes a large trailer parked by the entrance and a crew of nicely muscled men in sleeveless tops, sport trousers and trainers carrying things out, looking more like gymnasts at the top of their careers than movers.

“I like this party already,” he announces to Morgana, trailing his eyes after one dark-haired and particularly athletic-looking bloke putting his bulging biceps into rolling a large wooden tray through the hallway out the back of the house.

Morgana rolls her eyes. “At least wait until they’re done with the show before hitting on any of them. Besides I’ll need your help tonight, so try to stay sober as much as possible.”

“Sober?” Arthur asks distractedly, watching the well-sculptured arse of the bloke moving away. 

“I hope I can count on you.” She takes both his hands into hers, making him turn to her, and studies his face. “You look better. Sleeping?”

“Not that I’d ever admit to ever saying that, but yes, the remedy helped.”

She smiles. “Good. Did you talk to Gaius?”

Arthur shakes his head. “What for? I sleep like a baby, no side effects -- why bother him?”

“Still--”

“Mor _gana_ ,” Arthur stops her, “I am not helpless. I _know_. You said they were herbal. What are you worried about?”

“Nothing, nothing! But if you don’t feel right, if there’s a bigger issue--”

“There’s not.” He purses his lips.

“Fine, fine.” She’s looking at her phone, distracted. “Christ, I’d kill for Gwen to be here right now.”

“Morgana, no. Don’t even think about summoning her. I _promised_ \--”

Morgana raises her finger for Arthur to be quiet while dialing her mobile, and brings it to her ear.

“Hello, this message is for Cedric. Morgana calling. Where are you? You said you’d be here no later than half past four. It’s almost half past five. You better get your ar--”

“Hello?” Someone knocks on the frame of the open front door. “I'm looking for Morgana. Is she here?”

A bloke is standing at the entrance, looking at them expectantly. There's a large duffle bag next to him. He’s tall, has a mop of dark hair, and cheekbones so prominent, they can probably be seen from another galaxy. Arthur can’t say he’s ever been this impressed with someone’s facial bone structure as he is with this guy’s. He’s clean-shaven, in a dark-blue bomber jacket zipped over jeans hugging his slim hips. The jeans are tucked into black army boots with a thick sole. The guy raises his brow at him, and only then Arthur realises that he’s been staring.

“It depends,” Morgana says, eyeing him with scrutiny, and probably using her special superpowers again. Arthur swears she's like a walking CT machine -- she can actually read brain waves or worse.

"Pyrotech Works. You requested?" The bloke steps back and looks at the door. “Or am I at the wrong address?”

“I requested, indeed," Morgana says. "You're late. Did you receive my email with my design choices? You didn’t respond back.”

The guy stumbles slightly, then nods, eyes dropped to the duffle bag as he’s sliding it onto his shoulder and grunts. “I did. No time to respond. Apologies.” He shoots her a quick glance and then points to something behind him. “I have more boxes in the truck, but I need to survey the firing site first. Did you find a designated party to keep an eye on the guests this evening?”

Morgana points at huffing-in-surprise Arthur, and asks the guy, “How long will you need to set up?” 

“About three hours. And I’ll let off the works at precisely ten o’clock.”

“What?” she exclaims. “Ten is way too early! And how am I supposed to keep all my guests out of the garden for hours? That’s unacceptable!”

A muscle jumps in the guy’s jaw, and Arthur thinks he kind of likes the quiet display of temper on him. Mentally, he’s already making bets with himself on who’ll snap first. The pyrotech (pyrotech! fucking hell, Morgana!) bloke, or his famously short-fused sister, no matter how many zen candles she likes to put up.

“I’m responsible for the fireworks to be let off according to the code. I will mark the perimeter and put up the barrier, and you’ll be responsible for your company to stay put. I am short-handed today, as you know. Neither of us need liability issues, do we?”

Fuck, Arthur loves both the gleam in the eyes and the steely notes in the bloke’s voice. Forget the bulgy muscles, pyrotechs are the magic.

“But there are performers in the back of the house already!” Morgana tries again. “They’re setting up as well.”

“Are the performers planning to drink?” the guy asks, and Arthur snorts.

Morgana’s face turns hard. “I sure hope not."

“Well then, one professional next to another, I am certain we can agree on keeping our setups separate and not be in each other’s way. The good news -- from the pictures I received in your email, I already figured the best firing spot and it's in safe distance from the house.”

“But ten o’clock… So early…” Morgana puts on her best pout.

“Ten-thirty at the latest.” The guy’s voice softens; of course he’s succumbed to her charms. “According to the pyrotechnic safety regulations, I’m not allowed to let off fireworks past eleven in the evening. With the exception of the New Year celebrations. And the Bonfire Night. We are well past the former and still early for the latter. Unless you’d like to postpone.”

Something crashes in the kitchen and Morgana looks back with annoyance. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she mutters. “Fine, fine." She gestures at him to go on. "Arthur, could you please escort--”

A yell from the kitchen drowns out her voice, and she waves them off and rushes away.

Arthur and the bloke look at each other in silence for a moment.

Arthur clears his throat. “So, shall we?”

The bloke looks at him sceptically. “Are you certain?”

“About what?” Arthur asks.

“That you can manage a marshall duty.” The guy twirls his finger pointed at Arthur and smiles. “Or is escort your only specialty?”

“Cheeky.” Arthur grins, noting the flirtatious quality in the bloke’s tone, and he can’t deny he likes it. He points to the duffle bag. “Bloody fireworks. Really? Morgana hired you?”

The guy nods.

Arthur has to ask. “And I can watch?”

The bloke smirks at him. “Is that your thing?”

Arthur gives him a slow once-over, slow enough to achieve a telltale blush on the bloke’s cheeks. “It can be.” He beckons him to follow to the back of the house. “I’ve only ever heard of people doing such a thing. And I’ve only seen the real thing once, when in America.”

“You’ve been to America?” It’s now the guy’s turn to look at Arthur with interest.

“When I was seven.” Arthur shrugs and smiles. “I don’t recall much of that trip.”

The guy’s mouth stretches into a smile in return. “I bet I can do better.”

“Ha! Better than Disney?” Arthur teases.

“Disney?” His eyes light up. “Shite, mate. Well, maybe not today.”

They walk out of the house and stop. It’s more of an estate than a garden, and it’s divided into four sections, separated by paved pathways and with a large fountain in the middle. The guy gives the area a long, appraising look.

“It’s even bigger than I thought. Cat-three easily. That lady, with the mouth of a harpy…” He glances back at the house and then at Arthur. “She’ll have her wish.”

“My half-sister. Yes, we are related.”

“I don’t envy you.”

“No one does. She isn’t that bad. She just wants what she wants.”

“And it looks like she wants everything posh at the snap of her fingers,” supplies the guy helpfully.

Arthur shrugs. “She’s used to it.”

The guy looks at him calculatingly. “And you…”

“Sure. If there’s anything my bastard father was good at, it was to throw money our way. That was his definition of good parenting... What’s cat-three?” Arthur’s babbling for no reason and manages to switch the topic before he says too much and ruins his own good mood. “I’m Arthur, by the way.”

“Merlin.” The guy drops the bag as they reach the farther corner of the area and offers his hand; Arthur shakes it.

Merlin’s hand is narrow, warm and calloused. Arthur likes the sure grasp and the firm shake. Arthur looks into Merlin’s smiling face, his curious, bright-blue eyes crinkling around the corners. Arthur likes those crinkles. He likes the openness of his face. There’s something about this Merlin.

“Category three -- or 'display fireworks' -- must be safely viewable from twenty-five metres away, and must scatter no debris beyond a twenty metre range,” Merlin explains, almost as if he’s reading off the manual.

“Okay, mate, you lost me. Twenty metre range what now?” Arthur asks, watching Merlin unzip the bag and start pulling things out of it. “Debris? That doesn’t sound very safe.”

Merlin laughs. “What, you thought shite will be flying all over, and right into spectators? No way. No one will be allowed close to the setup when I let the works off.” Merlin stops smiling and adds with an absolutely serious face, “You included. And most _certainly_ not your sister.”

“Fine by me,” Arthur says quickly, not too excited about the idea of being too close to what Merlin is taking out of the bag, and especially when he starts reading the labels on the packages: “Aftershock 16”, “Adrenalin Junkie”, “Heat Seeker Rocket”. There’s also something succinctly called “Dr Thrust”. Arthur isn’t sure whether this is something he wants to learn about up-close and personal.

“Ready?” Merlin asks, unzipping his jacket.

“For what?”

“To get physical.” Merlin smiles.

“Mate, at least take me out to dinner.” Arthur grins so wide it hurts.

“You have to earn it.”

Considering Morgana’s agenda to pick at her guests’ chequebooks aggressively tonight, he’s dressed somewhat formally: no tie, but in a shirt, smart jacket, dark trousers and loafers. Merlin strips off his jacket, staying in a black polo shirt, and Arthur follows suit, placing his blazer on top of Merlin's on the grass. Merlin snorts at Arthur's not-so-subtle attempt to avoid it getting dirty. Arthur rolls up his sleeves, and when Merlin runs his hand through his hair, he notes two thin, well-worn bracelets on his wrist. One is made of black leather, and another is a braid of ribbons, colours faded, but Arthur can still tell it used to be a rainbow. Arthur meets Merlin's eyes, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“And if I earn it?” he asks, and Merlin shrugs and drops his eyes back to the bag. Something flutters in his chest at Merlin’s somewhat guarded yet still soft expression, and he adds, more seriously this time, “I’ll be worth it.”

Merlin doesn’t smile when he looks at him. “Show me.” He hands him a pair of gloves.

And for some reason, Arthur really wants to.

Unloading and carrying heavy boxes for quite a distance leaves them both sweating and winded, but they both smile as they drop the last box on the ground back in the garden.

Merlin starts opening the first box, and Arthur steps closer to peek inside and sees more labelled packages, a bunch of metal pipes of different size and wooden stakes, thick cable ties, a cloth tape, a hammer.

Merlin goes to another box, and, ripping the top off, begins to whistle -- a tune very catchy and familiar, but Arthur can’t place it right away. Going for the next box, Merlin starts singing under his breath. “Oh-oh-oh, blow-oh-oh-oh.”

Arthur still isn’t sure he hears it right. He tilts closer.

Merlin looks up at him and continues singing, a bit louder and with feeling now, "This place about to blow-oh-oh-oh." He has a surprisingly pleasant voice and a lush, lush mouth, pouting as he roulades another, “Blow-oh-oh-oh.”

Arthur starts laughing. “Are you singing _Kesha_?”

Merlin nods and announces in a dramatic whisper, “It’s gonna _blow_.” And, picking up a bag with cable ties, he rips it open with whistling and _phoomp-phoomp-phoomp_ noises imitating fireworks going off.

“Mate, no one sings Kesha except for Kesha," Arthur says confidently.

"Says who?" Merlin asks.

"Kesha?" 

"How do you know? Maybe I’m Kesha in disguise."

"You are?"

"Absolutely."  Merlin nods, his face dead serious.

"So far, all I'm getting is a strong terrorist vibe. I mean, you're not planning to actually blow this place up, are you?" Arthur asks, only half joking, and when Merlin starts unfolding a large piece of paper with something on it that looks more like a military strategy map, he adds quickly, "Kesha wouldn't."

Merlin laughs and shakes his head. "You're funny."

Arthur crosses his arms on his chest. "And you... Well, that's yet to be seen."

Merlin winks. "Oh, there’ll be something to see. I promise. It’ll be brilliant."

And Arthur can't wait.

 

 

**June 27th, 2013**

 

“There’s no way Morgana doesn’t remember meeting Merlin. I’m telling you, we met because of her.”

“I see...”

“You’re itching to make a comment in my file, aren’t you, Doctor Alator?”

“I’m a creature of habit, Arthur.”

“You look a bit tired. Am I too challenging for you?”

“You mentioned that something happened during the show… Something you found disturbing?”

“Yes, well. There was this... magician, of sorts.  I didn’t like him.”

“Why?”

“For one, he was a mediocre performer -- no one cares about rabbits and disappearing acts. And he kept making obvious mistakes. I might have commented on his cheap parlour tricks one too many times and ticked him off.”

“What happened?”

“He dared me to volunteer for a parlour trick I’d never seen before.”

“Did you do it?”

“Yes. Wouldn’t you?”

“And what happened?”

“He said I seemed too stressed and he could help me relax… Morgana was very supportive of that idea... You’re smiling…”

“No, no. Go on. What did he do?”

“He hypnotised me."

"Oh? Put you into a trance?"

“Yes.”

“I see. Do you remember anything from that experience?”

“Most vividly, Doc. So vividly, it still seems less of a dream and more of a reality.

“What do you remember?”

“He made me believe I was a circus performer myself. An aerialist, I think they’re called. I had this special kit on. Tight everywhere, but not uncomfortable. And I worked a trapeze like that was the only thing I’d ever known: doing the air flights and other crazy shite. Without a safety belt!”

“And how did it feel?”

“Brilliant! Bloody incredible! The most freeing experience. It felt right. Like I was the best at it. It felt too real. And you know what else?”

“Tell me.”

“Merlin was there as my partner. He was there, dressed in the same kit as me, and we were working an act together. He was lifting me mid-air, throwing me and catching again, and there was no hesitation in my mind about the steps of the routine we were doing. And the entire time, Merlin kept an eye contact with me, encouraged, gave me cues. His every move was sure, precise. God, he was bloody gorgeous. And I know it sounds mental -- I’m heavier than him, so it should’ve been the other way around -- but that was when I knew…”

 

 

“Knew what, Arthur?”

“That I could trust him. That we’d be brilliant together. We fit. I asked him out that evening.”

“Oh? And how did he respond?”

“Let us say he wasn’t against the idea.”

“I see… What else can you tell me? You said it felt too real for you. Why?”

“In my head, I remember Merlin’s voice, counting between each throw, and the cloud of powder whipping up every time I grabbed his hands or the bar. I remember the fresh smell of wood shavings on the floor. Except, there couldn’t be any. I remember the searchlights following us as we flew back and forth in the air. I remember my body singing with power, strength. I felt invincible, and I didn’t want it to end.”

“You mentioned this experience also being a trigger for you.”

“Yes. Ever since that thing, I’ve been feeling off.”

“Can you tell me more about it?”

“So you can officially call me certifiable?”

“Arthur.”

“Yes?”

“Tell me, is there an area in your life you believe you’re good at? Anything you do well?”

“I-- I think so.”

“What is it?”

“I believe I’m business savvy and… I… I care about patients, I know how to help them, contrary to anyone’s belief. Why?”

“Contrary to what _you_ believe, I know I’m good at what _I_ do. I wouldn’t have chosen this profession if I didn’t care. And I assure you, I am not about to make a snap judgement here, so I’d like to ask you for the same courtesy.”

“I don’t--”

“No?”

“Okay, fine.”

“Thank you… So, about that feeling you’ve been having -- that something’s off.”

“Yes… The magician bloke was a complete quack, I’m convinced. Not only didn’t I feel refreshed and well-rested after the session -- like he promised -- I came out of it with the biggest headache of my life. And with nausea. Something must have gone wrong. Morgana was in a tizzy, probably because I didn’t hesitate to tell the guy what I really thought about his professional competence as an entertainer. Maybe he cursed me or something...”

“You believe in such a thing?”

“Dunno. I didn’t believe in mind-tricks before that.”

“You think he used some kind of mind-control on you?”

“He did something, and it was freaky. Awesome, but freaky.”

“And then what?”

“And that’s it. End of story.”

“You just walked away, never talked to anyone about it?”

“Nope.”

“What are you not telling me, Arthur?”

“Can we not talk about this anymore?”

“Why?”

“Have I mentioned the freaky part?”

“Do you scare easily, Arthur?”

“Um… no. Not really.”

“Then what is the issue here?”

“The issue is the more I talk about it, the more mental it all seems, all right? Even to me. And…”

“Yes?”

“Fuck… And I’m already having trouble keeping track of what’s real and what’s not. Like...  Take you and me here. We’re sitting and talking -- is it real? How can I be sure? I don’t even remember being brought in here.”

“What is the last thing you remember?”

“Being piss-drunk, working.”

“Anything else?”

“Uh… Not a lot. A conference room full of people. Morgana being a harpy.”

“Do you remember any specific details about that morning? Burning your hand?  Driving to the office or taking a taxi? Confronting people in that conference room?”

“No.”

“You came in with a sword. You threatened to fire people.”

“I did that? Bad _ass_!”

“You think so? You also wore no shoes and you blacked out, thankfully before hurting anyone.”

“No shoes? Now I know you’re having me on.”

“You don’t believe any of this is true?”

“I believe you’re being misinformed.”

“And you’re sure none of it happened?”

 “I’m sure.”

“Yet, you’re not certain if your being here right now is real…”

“As unsettling as the thought may be, I almost wish it wasn’t real.”

“Why?”

“Because if it's just a bad dream, I’ll wake up and everything will be back to normal. My father’s still alive, Morgana doesn’t hate me, and Merlin…”

“Yes?”

“Except for Merlin. He can’t be a dream.”

“Why not?”

“Because he made me feel really good. I was happy. And I'd be insane to give that up.”

 

 

**May25th, 2013**

 

“You’re back.” Merlin takes off his goggles and the gloves. He looks relieved.

In Arthur’s absence, he’s managed to build several wooden boxes and stack large metal pipes inside covered with clear plastic to protect from the rain. They look like an oversized pan flute. There are more, thinner, pipes installed into the ground, making a large square. They are carefully wrapped in foil. It's obvious that a lot of work went into this -- amazingly, all done by just one person.

“Missed me?” Arthur grins.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Merlin smiles.

He looks ruffled, warm, and his smile makes Arthur want things. Like pushing Merlin to the ground, and rolling and jostling in the grass with him kind of things.

“You were supposed to be helping me tonight,” Merlin reminds him.

“I was. I’m sorry, got tied up for a bit there. Morgana needed help with the auction. And there was this magician... never mind. Sorry, I’m here now.”

“I knew you’d be pretty useless,” Merlin teases.

“Oi! I was helping! Who do you think sorted out the circus guys?” Arthur objects. “Weren’t you the one worried their tent was too close to your site? They’re rolling up now.”

Merlin glances at his watch. “Think they’ll be done soon?”

Arthur places his hand on top of Merlin’s. “ _Me_ rlin. It’ll be fine. Do you think they’d want their equipment riddled with burn holes from the fireworks? It’s in their best interest to be out of the garden on time.”

“Burn holes?” Merlin’s eyebrows jump up. “That would never-- I know what I’m doing!”

“Fine, I might have exaggerated the danger a bit to motivate them to leave sooner.”

“Wow, that’s...” Merlin shakes his head.

“A dick move, I agree.” Arthur shrugs. “But it worked.” He feels sudden nausea rolling up and he sways on his feet. Whoa. He has to swallow and take a moment to breathe. 

“Hey, mate, are you okay?” Merlin asks, touching his shoulder.

“I’m fine, fine.” Arthur smiles weakly. He rubs his forehead, blinking the wooziness off.

He doesn’t feel fine. Bloody hypnotist...  He remembers he meant to grab some water before coming back out here; he could use some himself.

“Want something to eat? Drink?” he asks Merlin, words scratchy in his throat.

Merlin looks at him, hesitating, but then smiles. “I can’t leave the site at this point, but yeah, yeah, I’m getting a bit famished.”

“Uno momento.”

Back in the house, Arthur maneuvers between half-drunk, excessively loud people, notes Gwen and Lancelot looking cosy in the corner, and waves at them. He hears Morgana’s pitchy voice nearby, recognises the back of her head by the mane of her hair as she leans towards someone very blond and curly next to her, a wide silver cuff with a large yellow stone flashing under the light when the person brings a flute of champagne to sip from. Arthur ducks his head, having no desire to talk to Morgana. He turns and strides determinedly to the tables with food. Flagging down a waiter, he asks for two bottles of water, chugs down some sweet fizzy drink off the tray, thankful for the amount of sugar in it, and loads two plates full of sandwiches and cold meats, looking forward to Merlin’s smile and possibly more banter. He wonders if there’ll be another Kesha song in his near future, or maybe even Bruno Mars. Arthur tries to recall the words of “Grenade” to prank Merlin, but the snatches of music playing something depressing on a piano reach his ear, and his brain plays a trick on him, offering the words of “Titanic” instead:

_Every night in my dreams,_

_I see you… I feeeeeel you..._

Jesus fucking christ, no. He cannot allow his brain being hijacked by that mush. Arthur knows how it goes -- once he lets Celine’s nasally voice penetrate his mind, there’s no escape from it. It’ll haunt him all evening.

“Heyyyy.” Fingers with long nails dig into Arthur’s shoulder, stopping his escape -- and thankfully the annoying song in his head.

Well-sloshed Morgana is not a common sight, and Arthur considers reaching for his phone to snap a pic of his sloppily grinning sibling with smudges of mascara under her eyes and her hair in hopeless disarray. How she managed to reach this state in such a short time -- and tonight out of all nights -- he’ll never know.

Any other time he’d _relish_ the opportunity to have something this embarrassing to hold over her head. But it’s also the evening when Arthur’s off his game as well -- his mind’s in a misalignment to the point of him seeing two Morganas instead of one and needing to blink until they unwittingly slide back one into the other -- and the offness of it would be somewhat concerning, if only Arthur _wanted_ to focus on the concerning bit for long enough.

He doesn’t want to, though, when there’s this thing inside him that feels like a Nerf gun pumping butterflies into his stomach in quick succession. It’s a familiar feeling of anticipation, a feeling he hasn’t had since probably his eleventh year, when he was about to kiss Sophia. His first-ever kiss turned out to be a lousy one, and so did the second, but he remembers the nervous thrill and the impatience of it... And it’s exactly how he feels now, so he can’t care less that this  fantastic blackmail material might be slipping through his fingers.

“Oh, here he is,” Morgana slurs meanwhile. “The party pooper himself. Did you have to flip out on that guy? It wouldn't have killed you to pretend to be nice for a few minutes.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. "I volunteered for his stupid magic trick, did I not?"

Morgana smirks at him. “Is that the light or you’re kind of pale? You freaked out there for real, didn't you? Jesus Christ, Arthur, it was just a show."

With both his hands being full, he tries to shrug Morgana’s clutching hand off, but her grip only becomes firmer.

"Something’s wrong with you. I’m not blind, you know," she murmurs, stumbling closer. "You have to tell someone. And if you don’t, _I_ will.”

Arthur scowls. “Sod off, Morgana. I don't need your nose in my business.”

“Why? Afraid what I would find?”

“Just leave me alone.”

Morgana’s eyes narrow. “Still shirking responsibilities, blood o’mine? Still think you can bugger your problems away with every bloke who smiles at you?”

Arthur contemplates dumping the content of the plates all over her spectacular evening dress. He scowls at her again.

“Still trying to pretend you _are_ my blood, bastard child?” he asks, the hiss of his voice slicing the air between them, and even he doesn’t recognise it.

Morgana’s whole body jolts away as if she’s been whipped, her face draining of all colour. She checks herself quickly, and her lips curl into a sneer. “Still wishing you weren’t so much like your father, golden boy?” 

Arthur closes his eyes. They’ve had worse rows and with Morgana completely sober, and he probably deserves this; yet this time, something shrivels and crawls away into the deepest recess of his being at her last jab. Except, he knows if he gives her an inch, she’ll take a mile and come back for more. It’s a vicious circle, really, which he has no time nor energy to be sucked into.

“You’re drunk,” he says firmly. “What will our investors think if they see the head of the marketing and PR in such a pathetic state?”

“Oh, no worries, they’ve seen worse. Don’t you remember Uther’s funeral?”

“Morgana, stop. This isn’t you.” Looking at his sister’s pale face, Arthur regrets having his hands full now. And she thinks _he’s_ spinning out of control?

“You’re convinced you know me.” Swaying a little, she waves somewhere around her ear. “Anything about me. ”

“Ah, well.” He shrugs, smiling a little. “I do know you’ll feel like utter shite tomorrow, so you better switch to water now.”

She shakes her head, with her arm leaning on his shoulder more for support now. “Sometimes I wish I hated you more. It would’ve been easier.”

“Well then, lucky me,” he retorts, not feeling like smiling anymore. He’ll deny this conversation happened if it’s ever brought up. Morgana is all he has left.

He has to dump the plates onto the first available surface -- which turns out to be Leon walking by -- when Morgana groans, her eyes rolling into the back of her head, and turns  a bit green.

"Christ, Morgana," Arthur mutters, taking on her entire weight and rearranging his pose so it looks like they’re simply hugging, and instructs Leon, "Find Gwen. Tell her I'm sorry, but I need her. No one else can know."

So much for his promise.

Leon nods, and with true skill, creates a small diversion by dropping one of the plates and cursing rather convincingly while Arthur sneaks out with Morgana through the side door, which he knows leads him into the stairs to the second floor.

 

~*~

 

Morgana gets sick on the way up. She clutches at Arthur’s knees while throwing up all over his loafers, which doesn’t help the already-quivering state of Arthur’s stomach. Trying to keep it together, he hauls the moaning Morgana to her feet when the worst seems to be over. He swears he’ll find a way to make her pay for this.

In Morgana's bedroom, he leaves her already knocked out on the bed and goes straight to the loo, where he immediately chucks off his shoes into the rubbish bin -- they’re ruined without hope.  His trousers need a cleaning, too. It’s a good thing he sometimes stays at this house and has a spare change of clothes in the guest bedroom.

Relieving himself, he turns his head to the mirror and grimaces.

 

His hair is a mess, he's missing a top button of his shirt, and there's a fresh cut on his cheek from Morgana's enormous ring -- damage he sustained while dragging her upstairs. Thankfully, it's not deep enough to worry, but it could use a Band-aid and Arthur looks everywhere for it, including under the sink, and finds nothing. He slaps a piece of toilet paper over the cut -- old but proven method to stop the bleeding.

He opens the medicine cabinet and is taken aback by how full to the brim it is. Why do women need so much crap? He finds a pack of Paracetamol for her to take when she wakes up, his eyes catching several bottles with colourful labels sitting on the shelves, and he recognises on some of them the Pendragon PH logo. So, herbal remedies are not always the cure.

He goes back into the bedroom to leave two pills of Paracetamol for Morgana on the nightstand when something catches his eye -- something’s sticking out of a closed door. It’s a piece of soft paper. He tugs on it, because Morgana’s secrets are fascinating, but of course, the little door’s locked. Arthur smirks as an idea pops in his head. They used to prank each other as kids, and Morgana was the worst. He still hasn’t forgiven her for pouring glue into his bottle of KY when he was seventeen, which he kept under a similar lock in his room. Morgana generously explained that all it took to get inside was a little push and wiggle.

She laughed. “You should’ve kept it in a safe, dear brother.”

Smiling, Arthur pushes and wiggles, just like the old times, and the latch flips down with a soft click. Arthur carefully opens the door, wincing when it squeaks a little, and looks inside. Interesting stuff he finds there. Nothing embarrassing of a super-private nature, which is too bad, but a simple crinkled paper bag.

Arthur steps back into the bathroom for more light and discovers inside the brown bag several bottles, white and square. He shakes and opens one of them -- just out of curiosity -- and finds there already-familiar, small, round pills in green-ish colour. He sniffs the bottle just to be sure and smiles. Bingo.

He opens another bottle and sees identical-looking pills. If he borrows a few from each bottle, he bets Morgana won’t even notice. Besides, he'll tell her -- when he feels like talking to her again, that is.

It takes him a moment to find a suitable container, and when he does, he pours about a third from each bottle into it. His hands shake as he's doing it, and just like earlier this week, he places one pill on his tongue and washes it down with tap water almost without thinking.

Back in the bedroom, he tip-toes back to the stand, pushes the bag back inside and, holding the latch with the tip of his finger, quietly closes the door. Morgana’s still sound asleep. His eyes automatically drift from Morgana’s slack face to the clock, and he swears quietly.

10:22.

Merlin will kill him.

And God forbid something happens to any of the guests during the fireworks. Morgana will dig his body out of his grave and will kill him again just to teach him a lesson.

Arthur rushes to the guest room to change.

 

~*~

 

Morgana’s garden is generously supplied with lamp posts, and Arthur has no problem navigating back to Merlin. He remembers the food and water only when he’s almost at his destination and curses at himself. “Way to go, arsehole.”

He rushes towards Merlin’s figure pacing back and forth across the field. Merlin stops when Arthur comes closer and, after looking at him for one appraising moment, pushes his hands into his pockets. Smiling apologetically, Arthur makes a move to slip under the rope inside the staked-out territory, but Merlin blocks him, and he's taller and broader than Arthur expected. “No. Go back.”

“Merlin,” Arthur starts.

“I said, _back_.”

“Listen--”

“No, _you_ listen.” Merlin doesn’t let Arthur move. “I suppose a little consideration was asking a lot from a bloke like you, and I get it, you have much more interesting things to do. So go back to your party, have a few more drinks. I’m about to start and you aren’t allowed here.”

“I haven’t been drin--” Arthur tries to protest.

Merlin scoffs. “No?” He yanks Arthur closer by the collar of his shirt and takes a short sniff. His mouth forms a disgusted grimace. “My mistake. You’re just high as a kite.”

Arthur opens his mouth.

Merlin pushes him off. “Leave. And tell your sister that if any of your stoned, drunken friends come too close, the show’s over.”

“Morgana’s currently indisposed. She’s--” Arthur shouldn’t reveal more, because yes, she is in fact drunk out of her wits, which obviously won’t make Merlin pity her more or help Arthur to win any cool points with him.

“Look.” Arthur steps back and raises his hands up. “I’m very sorry, all right? I know…” He looks down at himself. He’s still in his dress shirt, which is half-tucked into his old sweatpants from uni days he found in the guest room, and on his feet are a-size-too-small trainers that aren’t even his. To add to the embarrassment, a piece of toilet paper’s still stuck to his cheek. He hastily rips it off. “Bollocks. Merlin, I realise how it looks, but--”

Merlin crosses his arms on his chest and arches one eyebrow at him.

Arthur sighs. “You’re not going to give me a chance, are you?”

Something softens in Merlin’s expression, and he shifts on his feet.

“Why do you care? You don’t even know me,” he asks.

Arthur looks up at the dark, clouded sky. He should blame the stupid hypnosis session -- the almost-real memory of Merlin firmly clasping his arms, tossing him in the air, sending him flying, and catching him right back. The feeling so solid, it’s confusing and makes something ache inside his chest. Yes, it’s true, Arthur wouldn’t know this person standing in front of him from Adam, but he believes in what he saw. He’s sure that that strong and undeniable connection he felt in the hypnotic trance was brought up by the almost-palpable spark between them in reality; it was based on something that _can_ be, if only they give it a  chance, and Arthur wants that. He really wants that. So no, he can’t just walk away. He has to try.

“No, I don’t know you,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “But I’d like to. Just-- I’ll stay here, all right? Let me stay.”

Merlin rubs his face. “Why did it have to be me?” he mutters.

“Hmm?” Arthur leans closer.

Merlin flails his arms. “It’s my first independent gig, all right?” he says, eyes flashing hotly. “And I was supposed to have help from a mate, and he bailed. I’d never ask a customer for assistance otherwise. I shouldn’t have. Go back, Arthur. Enjoy the rest of your night, yeah? I’m sorry.”

The ache inside Arthur’s chest eases a little; it’s weird how relieved he is at this simple confession. “I’d rather be here, actually. Didn’t you promise me a brilliant show?”

Merlin’s smile is tentative, but it’s there, and Arthur counts it as a small victory.

“I also said you can’t be close when I let it off. So, shoo.” His smile is wide now.

“But--” Arthur whines.

“To enjoy my _brilliant_ show to the fullest, you’ll want to be far enough to see the breadth of it.” Merlin pushes him in the chest lightly. “Go on. I have to start.”

Arthur heaves a suffering sigh and walks about twenty feet back. Merlin gestures at him to back off some more. Arthur backs out a few more steps and crosses his arms.

Merlin shakes his head. “Posh-head... Fine. Your loss.”

They hear the laughter spilling out of the house, and Arthur recognises Gwen’s voice sending the guests out to the garden to wait for a surprise.

He sees Merlin’s back doing something by the boxes, his shoulders jerking methodically as he’s doing something with his hands. A few minutes later, he runs towards Arthur, stopping not far from him, turns around and crossing his arms. His face is pulled into an expression of utmost concentration.

The first missile launches up so quietly, Arthur misses it.

And then, the silence breaks with a loud _phoom-phoom-phoom,_ followed by whistling and crackling going off so far up in the air, Arthur has to toss his head back in order to observe it all. And what he sees is magnificent. The brilliance of colours, shapes, and sounds blooming in the sky right above him is overwhelming and absolutely stunning. There’s a certain pattern, he knows, having witnessed Merlin set it up with precision and according to his own design, but he forgets all about it as the lights burst into life, and simply enjoys the show like he’s a seven-year-old boy again and is in the happiest place on earth.

 

 ~*~

 

 “So, what did you think?” Merlin’s shoots Arthur a bashful smile. “Did I impress you?”

The spectacular show of fireworks that seemed to go on and on and on -- to Arthur’s delight --is now over, and Arthur hears Gwen in the distance, herding the guests back into the house. Morgana owes her big. And Gwen probably won’t speak to Arthur for at least a month after this. Of course he deserves it, although it’s not his fault Morgana can’t hold her liquor.

Even with his eyes closed, the lights are still going off behind his lids, moving and warping into such fascinatingly intricate patterns, Arthur loses himself in their maze.

Merlin clicks his fingers at Arthur’s face, startling him. “Are you with me?”

Arthur watches Merlin’s fingers as if in slow motion; the clicking comes out more like an echo of a thunderous clap in his ears. So bizarre. He blinks several times, shaking the weird feeling off.

“It’s not Disney, of course,” he says after a pause, his voice strangely hollow to his ears. “But you can count on my glowing recommendations, yes.” Arthur smiles, or at least he thinks he’s smiling, his face feeling kind of numb.

“Well, aren’t you easy to please?” Merlin chuckles. 

“You’d be surprised.” Arthur’s flirting, and he believes he has a good reason for it. At first, Merlin was just some good-looking bloke whose appearance fit Arthur’s taste in a man in every category: lithe frame, broad shoulders, dark hair, blue eyes, invitingly plump mouth. The mouth that Arthur’s sure can entertain him for hours, and not by just singing popular tunes or firing off witty remarks. Arthur can’t stop himself from imagining that pretty mouth doing some more explicit and a lot more useful things, like wrapping it around his cock. And it’s hard to keep an innocent expression while he watches Merlin lick his lips wet and grin at him.

Arthur just saw Merlin firing missiles, playing with danger as if it’s his second nature, and put up a truly spectacular show. He isn’t just impressed with Merlin’s abilities; weird as it might be, considering the circumstances, he’s in awe of him and probably a bit in love. Not that he’s going to tell any of this to Merlin.

He’s only known the guy for a few hours, and they’ve been full of dark and off-colour jokes, accidental touches while setting up the site, and an occasional meeting of the eyes when one thought the other wasn’t looking. Merlin’s presence affects him in a strange way. Instant physical attraction isn't something he’s new to. It’s not like he hasn’t hooked up with people he’d barely exchanged a few words with before going right to shagging -- and that was the idea. But this entire evening has been a chain of strange, confusing events, and Arthur doubts he’d feel them as surreal and magical, if it weren’t for Merlin being a part of it.

Merlin is the reason this evening hasn’t turned into a complete disaster as it should have.

“I’ll help,” he offers, seeing that Merlin starts packing up.

Merlin laughs. “You like cleaning so much?”

Arthur wants to say that he likes _him_ , but he’s not a schoolboy with a crush, so he just smiles. “The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can go grab dinner.”

Merlin laughs again, folding a rope over his arm. “By the time I’m finished here, it’ll be midnight. Isn’t it too late for a dinner?”

“So, if I offered you a big juicy steak, you’d turn it down right now?” Arthur challenges.

“Absolutely.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

“You’re not hungry? Really?

“I am. But-- Nevermind.”

“No, tell me.”

Merlin squints at him, as if considering whether to say something, and shrugs. “I’m not a fan of meat.”

Arthur huffs out a laugh. “You don’t eat meat?”

“I don’t.

“Like… Ever?”

Merlin shrugs again.

“Oh, you’re one of those,” Arthur says and wants to eat his words immediately. “I mean…”

Merlin’s expression hardens. “Apparently, I am.”

He turns to one of the boxes and starts loading his gear into it. Arthur clears his throat.

“I’ve bollocksed it up again, haven’t I?” he asks.

Merlin glances at him. “Relax. I’ve heard worse.”

“No, listen.” Arthur steps forward. “I think it all went wrong somehow, at some point. Let’s just… I don’t know… Oh, bugger it. May I have your number? I’d like to call you some time… Tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow. If… you’re free, that is.” Definitely doesn’t sound like a schoolboy with a crush. Absolutely not.

Arthur holds his breath. He’s never had to work so hard to win someone’s attention, while being so confused, and worrying this much about rejection.

Merlin looks up and meets Arthur’s eyes. He tilts his head. “I’m not free.”

Arthur’s heart knocks loudly against his ribcage. “Oh… that’s… Yes. Of course.”

Without thinking, he yanks on the metal tube from the ground and pulls it out.

Merlin places his hand on Arthur’s arm. “I’m not free tomorrow. I have… Nevermind. Wednesday. You can call me Wednesday.”

Arthur isn’t able to keep his face in a neutral expression, even if he tries. He doesn’t know what comes over him, but with the grin stretching his mouth to the point of threatening to strain something, he surges forward and pulls Merlin up. “Wednesday. Not call; we’re going out on Wednesday. To the best vegetarian place there is.” 

Why Merlin doesn’t find Arthur’s being handsy strange, only Merlin can answer. He smiles and clasps his hand over Arthur’s shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be posh or vegetarian.”

“I don’t care.” Arthur waves. “Name the place, and we’ll go there.”

Merlin smiles and nods at the box in front of him. “Ready?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “And here we go again. In the dark.” He picks up his side. “So, how about that phone number?” he asks.

“Zero-two...” Merlin starts rattling off.

“Whoa, wait until my hands are free.”

“Why?”

“To punch it into my phone.”

“You don’t trust your memory?” Merlin grunts out under the weight of the box as they carry it through the garden to his car.

“Who remembers phone numbers anymore?”

Arthur trails after Merlin, like a thread attached to a needle, to help finishing packing. Back at the car with the last box, Merlin fiddles with the keys, glancing at Arthur at the door. “It’s late.”

Arthur nods, and something comes over him again. This "something" _phooms_ in his head, bright and brave. It unfurls _everywhere_ inside him; his hands become too large for his body, and his vision sharpens, noting every detail of Merlin’s face, even in the dark. The shadows retreat, leaving a gorgeous glow about him Arthur wants to bask in.  To take it _all_ in. His feet push forward, and his body rings with almost euphoric anticipation when he leans all the way in and crowds Merlin against the car. He brings his hands to Merlin’s face, ignoring his gaping expression, and kisses him. Licks with a soft moan over Merlin’s plump bottom lip, like he’s been imagining for the past however many hours, and sucks on it a little, stealing Merlin’s breath. It's a precious thing -- a sweet and fragile thing singing between them that Arthur wants to keep with him for as long as he can. That's why he gives Merlin another -- more chaste \-- kiss, this time on the corner of his mouth, and steps back. They both exhale shakily.

Arthur can’t turn his eyes away from Merlin. His face growing warm and his lungs too big for his own chest, and he heaves, almost expecting Merlin to tell him to forget it. To never bother him. Call him a creep. But Merlin doesn’t, just stares at Arthur in silence.

“I’m sorry, I--” Arthur tries, mind floating blank somewhere in space.

Merlin brings his hand to his mouth and touches his lips. “No. That’s… You’re a good kisser.”

Arthur can’t see him smiling, but he hears it, and huffs a relieved laugh. 

“Wednesday, Merlin. It’ll be my turn to blow you away.”

Arthur’s ready for grand gestures and intends to make them reality at the first opportunity.

 

 

**May27th, 2013**

 

Something out of the norm occurs -- Morgana doesn’t show up in the office on Monday. She must have suffered from a massive hangover over the weekend if she’s skipping work. Not to say it wasn’t a strange weekend for him. After Morgana’s party, he crashed and slept for an unreal amount of time -- almost fourteen hours, which must be a record for Arthur since he was probably fourteen.

He texts Morgana:

_Still alive?_

She answers in two hours:

_Go away. Ill never drnk again. How did I get to my room? _

For some strange reason, Arthur decides to lie:

_Leon took you._

She responds almost immediately:

_Fffkk._ _So it’s his destroydd loafers in the rubbish bin?_

Arthur freezes. He’s already forgotten.

_How should I know?_

Her last reply is:

_I feel horrid. Horrrrrriddddd. I blame u. Ughhhhh_

_Come to the office. let Gwen kill you, _he types by way of revenge.

“Arthur, are you listening?”

Arthur flinches, snapping his attention back to Leon and recoiling from Leon’s fingers clicking too close and too loudly in front of Arthur’s face. He clears his throat.

“I’m sorry, Leon, continue.”

“What’s the matter with you? I can come back later if you’re busy.”

“No, no. This is important,” Arthur waves and opens the folder with the files in front of him. “Sorry. I’m here, I’m listening.”

Leon points to the folder. “I found more information on Odin and Cenred. Still waiting for more on Agravaine. And I’m still working on clearance for the credit cards for him as well. He has more accounts than you’ve had blokes entering your apartment in the last month.”

Arthur snorts. “That’s neither here nor there.”

Leon raises his eyebrow and Arthur stops smiling. He thumbs through the files, paying more attention to the information collected by Leon this time, and then leans to the back of his chair.

“You ran a report on me.”

Leon’s grey eyes are sharp on Arthur. “Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

Leon changes position in his chair; it’s making an unpleasant creaking noise under him. Someone laughs in the hallway, too loud to be appropriate; must be one of Gwen’s friends visiting her desk during lunch. Gwen didn’t leave when Arthur told her he was skipping break to meet with Leon, and now Arthur wonders why. 

“You said to pull full report on everyone on the board,” Leon says. “You’re on the board.”

“And what did you find?”

“Enough to damage your name beyond help.”

“I don’t have anything to hide,” Arthur dismisses the notion. He sniffs the air. He can’t place it right away -- the smell that bothers him -- and then figures that the blame is on his unfinished tea, sitting on the table. He makes a disgusted noise and pushes the cup farther away from himself. “Whatever I’ve done, I was just a stupid kid.”

“Some are recent, Arthur. The near miss with the coppers in January. Only Gwen and I know what it took to get them off your back then.”

“I was _grieving_ … We’ve discussed this,” Arthur says, scratching his itching arm, then his leg. Everything irritates him today. Everything. Leon’s patronising tone, Gwen’s inability to keep her voice down, the too-tight collar of his shirt. “I had to issue a statement and apologise, remember?”

Leon unamused stare is infuriating.

“What?” Arthur snaps.

Leon nods to the file in Arthur’s hands. “The incident in oh-seven.”

Arthur scowls. “I had nothing to do with it.”

Leon’s face stays impassive.

“You know I didn’t,” Arthur insists. “It’s not my fault Mordred wasn’t stable in the head. We weren’t dating, Leon. I swear, I never lead him on. The most we interacted was passing each other in the hall at uni. Until he decided that we were in love and started stalking me. He tried to sneak into my dorm and my bed while I was sleeping. What would you’ve done if you were me? Of course I kicked his arse. He was lucky I didn’t file a restraining order.”

“Read the file, Arthur,” is all Leon says, but there’s something in his voice that has Arthur hastily flipping through the file until he finds a report dated February 15th, 2007, mentioning Mordred’s name.

Arthur raises his head before he’s even finished reading the entire thing. “He did what?”

“The note had your name in it,” Leon says, and adds, “he’s fine now. Lives in France, engaged.”

Arthur rubs the back of his neck. “Jesus. Well, I’m glad he’s okay. It’s over, then. Nothing to worry about.”

Leon shakes his head. “You know it’s not about the depth of the information, but about how you spin it. There’s enough here to smear your name and have you gone.”

“It’s not in anyone’s interest. I _am_ the name. There’s no Pendragon PH without Pendragons in it.”

“There’s still Morgana.”

“Who’s technically a LeFay.”

“Arthur...”

Arthur drops his eyes. “I know.”

He has to take a few deep breaths, pushing down a sudden roll of nausea. He swipes the beads of sweat off his upper lip with the back of his finger. “It’s _my_ company. I can do this. I have to.”

He closes the folder and pushes back his chair. The scraping noise against the floor is like a nail against glass.

“I want the rest of the report,” he says, tugging at his ear. “Agravaine… Morgana, too.”

Especially Morgana.

A thought -- no, more like a feeling of the sixth-sense kind -- has been nibbling at the back of his mind for a while now. Although these people showed their loyalty to Uther Pendragon, they haven’t been too keen on demonstrating the same for Arthur. He hasn’t got the experience, the strength of the character, or the power of persuasion possessed by his father. Maybe some day, if ever, but until then, he’ll keep an eye on everyone, even his own sister.

Arthur glances at the phone -- there are no more texts, no calls. He drags his eyes back to Leon.

“I might be left without a choice but to play dirty. You know that besides the fund left by my mother, my flat in Belgravia, and my father’s armour collection, this company’s all I’ve got. Everything else, Uther bequeathed to Morgana. I can sell the flat, but it won’t be enough to keep the company afloat even for a month. I need the means to shut them up. I can’t afford a scandal, especially when our competition is going nose to nose with us with the new product lines.”

“So, what are you planning to do with the information?” Leon asks, pointing to the folder.

Arthur raps his fingers on the table and stops, because even that sound seems too much to his ears.

“We keep it in a safe, cool place, and hint at it.”

Leon smiles. “And they say you’re not a worthy opponent.”

Arthur frowns. “I hope you’re not repeating that elsewhere.”

Leon’s mouth slides into a thin line right away, his eyes darting to Arthur and then down to his hands. “I’d never, Arthur, you know that.”

Arthur considers reassuring his friend that he does, but the expression on his face must be showing something else entirely before he checks himself. Leon leans forward in quick search of Arthur’s eyes. Arthur doesn’t shy away from a question -- almost a reproach -- he finds there. Yes, he’s suspicious of everyone, and he can’t be blamed for that. Leon must understand.

“I’ll need until the end of the week, if I may,” Leon says, his tone harsher than he usually allows himself.

“You have until Wednesday,” Arthur answers, remembering the significance of that day, and he can’t suppress a smile.

Leon looks at him with his eyebrows raised. He must be thinking Arthur’s losing his marbles. “I’ll bring everything I find. The same time?”

What he appreciates in Leon the most is he never issues empty promises. Arthur doubts he’ll ever see the full version of the lives of his executives on his table -- this is not MI6, for pete’s sake -- but he’s sure there will be enough information for Arthur to use it to his favour.

“Thank you, Leon. Good job.”

Leon nods and leaves.

Arthur rushes to the in-suite restroom and barely makes it to the loo, where he loses his breakfast.

 

 

**May 29th, 2013**

 

It’s never been like this for Arthur before, but he’s nervous sick the night before calling Merlin. He plies himself with work and more research for his pet project just so he stays away from his mobile and doesn’t call him too soon. When the day comes, he doesn’t call him at noon, lets the numbers tick away past three, four, five o’clock in the afternoon -- although he watches them obsessively -- and doesn’t let himself touch the screen until it finally says 18:00.

He presses the little green phone icon next to Merlin’s number only then.

“Yes?” Merlin asks by way of greeting.

“Hey, Merlin.”

“Who is this?” If Merlin sounds a little annoyed, Arthur refuses to read into it. That would be childish.

“It’s Arthur. Hello.”

A momentary silence -- as if Merlin is working out who it is exactly calling him -- is brief enough for Arthur not to think much of it, and then Merlin makes a pleased, chuckling noise, and it sounds so good in Arthur’s ear, he huffs in relief himself.

“Oh, hello. I thought it was another prank call,” Merlin says. “Nevermind, not important.”

“Is someone bothering you?” Arthur asks, coming off way more territorial than he has any right to be.

“Nothing I can’t deal with,” Merlin answers. “How are you, Arthur?”

The proper answer would be, “Great, fine,” possibly adding a “thank you” at the end, but the tone of Merlin’s voice is too warm for it to make it just a polite question, and more like he really wants to know. Like he’s open for candid answers, prepared to listen for Arthur if that’s what Arthur needs.

“I’m really good, Merlin. Brilliant, even. It hasn’t been a good day at first, kind of terrible, to be honest, most of my days are lately, actually… but it’s good now, really good,” Arthur’s babbling. Oh god, he’s _babbling_ , make it stop.

Merlin chuckles, still warm, familiar somehow. “I can hear that. That’s good, Arthur. Glad it’s better now.”  
Arthur takes a shaky breath, wondering what is it about Merlin that makes him full of longing and feeling light at the same time. Even the way Merlin says his name sounds different: soft, intimate, like Arthur’s something special.

“I want to see you,” he blurts out. “Can I see you tonight?”

Arthur hears some rustling and a stifled soft groan, like Merlin’s stretching after being in one position for too long, and Arthur can picture it in his mind -- the long lines of Merlin’s lithe, pliant body in his black polo and low-on-waist jeans, deliciously arched up, and that goes straight to Arthur’s groin. Fuck. He rubs himself without thinking, tugs at his cock through the fabric of his trousers to relieve the instant ache the image gives him, and stops. He has to, if he doesn’t want to miss what Merlin’s about to say.

“Yeah,” Merlin says, “Yeah. We can meet somewhere if you want.”

Arthur wants. Meet. Talk. Eat. Dance. Kiss. Suck cock. If Merlin’s up for it. Anything Merlin wants.

Apparently, Merlin wants to see a movie -- _The Great Gatsby_ , specifically -- and Arthur’s only happy to oblige, since he really doesn’t care.

They agree to meet in two hours, and he doesn’t even make it to the shower -- brings himself off quickly with rough strokes right in the living room as soon they hang up, gasping and shooting all over himself. Like a horny teenager. He suspects this is the problem he’ll be facing quite often in the foreseeable future where it comes to Merlin, judging by how little it’s helped.

He’s charged and eager, excitement buzzing insistently under his skin, pushing him to _go-go-go_ , and _go-now-already_ , and _it'd be a shame to be late for a first date_.

Arthur’s so keyed up, he feels like throwing up, and has to take a half of the green pill to calm down a little. He’s dressed and ready, out the door and on the way to the tube in record time, so there’s no one else to blame that he shows up at the theatre almost forty minutes early, subjecting himself to the additional torture of waiting, this time in the cold.

 

~*~

 

Merlin’s engrossed in the movie, and Arthur’s engrossed in Merlin’s profile. This is definitely becoming a problem. The movie is not boring -- it’s Baz Luhrmann, and Tobey Maguire, not to mention Leonardo DiCaprio, who’s yet to win an Oscar, poor sod -- but Merlin’s profile is a lot more entertaining, if not _enthralling_. Specifically his mouth -- it  smacks, pouts and purses, lips glistening in the dark of the theatre from the popcorn butter. Arthur can’t help himself. He's attracted to that mouth, and what he imagines it can do to him is too graphic, too obscene to even think about on a first date. 

Earlier in the evening, he discovered that Merlin wears glasses. _Sometimes, Arthur, only for movies and such, god, sod off and stop staring._

Which is entirely unfair - no bloke should look so downright sexy in black-rimmed frames, making his already-severe cheekbones a lethal weapon against Arthur’s quickly weakening resolve to behave. There’s also a slight shadow of stubble on Merlin's jaw. Angular, strong jaw, offsetting a long, pale neck with a sharp Adam’s apple. He wants to kiss and bite and feel it vibrate as he rips a moan out of Merlin’s throat, asking for more. And the collarbones -- the most lickable collarbones belonging to a man. God, those collarbones will be the bane of Arthur's existence, along with that mouth.

When the situation in the crotch area becomes dire again and Arthur's desperate for distraction -- which the movie clearly fails to provide -- he throws popcorn at Merlin. It hits his cheek and Merlin swats at it without looking away from the screen. Arthur throws a few more pieces, to which Merlin protests with a, "shhhhhh," not addressed to anyone in particular. And there goes that kissable pout again. Goddammit! Arthur’s this close to dragging Merlin out of the theatre and snogging him within an inch of his life.

“Merlin,” he whispers. “ _Mer_ lin.”

“What?” Merlin snaps his head, mid-chew.

“Want to get out of here?”

“What? No. We’re watching the movie!”

Arthur sighs and starts tapping his fingers on the arm of his seat.

“Stop that!” Merlin hushes him. Of course he also fucking pouts.

Arthur takes a suffering breath. “Merlin, look. I’ll buy it for you on DVD.” Yes, he’s fucking begging.

Merlin turns to him with his entire body, and Arthur can’t see his exact expression in the dark, but he’s definitely not smiling.

“The movie came out in theatres two weeks ago,” he says slowly.

Arthur shrugs. “There’s already Oscar buzz, and therefore there should be a DVD version out. For the members of the Academy.”

“Are you a member of the Academy?”

“No, but I know people who are. Please?”

Someone shushes them from a couple of rows back.

Merlin shakes his head.

“What?” Arthur asks.

Merlin sighs and picks the bucket of popcorn from his lap. “Fine. Let’s go.”

“Oh, thank fucking God!” Arthur exclaims and rushes after the already-striding-to-the-exit Merlin, ignoring the hissing protests from people they pass.

“Arthur.” Merlin turns to him as soon as they’re out. “What you did there was really shitty. I liked that movie!”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry.” Arthur rubs the back of his neck. “It’s just--”

“And what the fuck was that ‘I’m mates with the members of the Academy’ bullshit?”

Arthur smiles sheepishly. “Technically, it’s not untrue.”

“Technically, it’s bragging.”

Arthur peers at Merlin. “Didn’t impress you?”

“No. Well. Maybe a little.”

“Ah-ha! All’s not lost!”

“Don’t be so smug about it. You really can get me a decent copy that’s not shot from the screen?”

Arthur looks away. “Maybe.”

“You _arse_!” Merlin punches him in the shoulder. “You lured me out of the movie for nothing?”

“I didn’t lure you.”

“You said you wanted to go!”

“Yes! You wouldn’t stop touching your mouth; it was very distracting.”

“What?” Merlin laughs. “I was eating pop--”

There’s got to be something in Arthur’s expression -- probably in the way his gaze immediately travels to Merlin’s lips and lingers there -- that shuts Merlin up mid-sentence, his eyes snapping to Arthur’s mouth as well. Arthur takes the bucket of popcorn Merlin’s still holding out of his hands and tosses it into the nearby rubbish without looking.

Merlin clears his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and Arthur wants to touch it. With his tongue.

“Merlin,” he says, aching, aching to pull Merlin closer. Breathe him in.

“Are we doing that, then?” Merlin asks.

“Doing what?” Arthur’s not recognising his suddenly gruff voice.

“That part...” Merlin’s voice is no better.

He’s close; his knuckles brush the back of Arthur’s hand. Such simple, accidental touch -- or maybe not, if Arthur reads the hot intent in Merlin’s eyes correctly.

"Which part?"

“The part when I’m distracting you with my mouth for real?” Merlin’s dark, long lashes flutter when he looks at him and places a hand on Arthur’s upper arm, and that’s definitely not an accident. And then Merlin’s words catch up with his brain.

“Do you _want_ to distract me with your mouth?” Arthur tries to keep his face neutral, which is not easy with the thrill singing so loudly in his blood, _Yes. Yes_.

“Might as well, since we’re missing the movie.” Merlin shrugs.

“You--”

Arthur grabs Merlin and starts dragging him out, but then sees the door to the loo and pulls him inside. He thanks God and also Jesus when he finds that it's empty, but to avoid any complications due to public indecency -- and there will be a fair amount of indecency,  Arthur’s fucking certain -- he pushes him into the last stall and locks the door behind them.

“You’re such a fucking _tease_ , Merlin.”

Arthur attacks Merlin’s mouth, going for it as if he’s been on a terrible snogging drought; and it’s not far from the truth, considering how different, how new this feels with Merlin. There’s absolutely no explanation for it, except that no one’s ever smiled at him like Merlin, or challenged him like Merlin _._ Or had such a fuckable mouth like Merlin.

“Wait, the glasses! Let me--” Merlin pushes Arthur away when they bump their noses together, Merlin’s nerdy frames getting in the way of a thorough make out.

They laugh, a little embarrassed by how eager they both are, how Merlin’s hands shake as he works on retrieving the case and Arthur can’t seem to let go of Merlin’s jacket. They’ve barely done anything yet, but Merlin’s already looking debauched, his eyes sparkling with joyous glint, and his hair’s sticking out in every direction. He’s stuffing the glasses into the case, taking way too long, and Arthur groans, reaching out for him again.

“ _Mer_ lin.”

Merlin sends him a playful look and steps even closer, his chest flush against Arthur’s. He nuzzles Arthur’s cheek and whispers, “Hi... Where were we?”

Arthur pulls Merlin in for a fierce kiss.  

"I’ll show you where we are," he says an eternity later, panting. "The members of the Academy haven’t seen nothing yet."

"Fuck the Academy," Merlin hisses, arching his neck to give Arthur better access. “Arthur…”

"God, yes…” Arthur reaches down to rub Merlin with a merciless hand. “Shit, shit, shit. I can’t. Merlin, I want to fuck you. Let me fuck you?"

Merlin clutches at Arthur’s shoulders and moans into his ear. Arthur buries his nose into the side of Merlin’s neck, where it’s smooth, soft and free of scruff, and inhales the smell of him: a mix of sweat, popcorn, soap, and something bitter, like a smoke of a campfire. It’s intoxicating, just like Arthur imagined it would be. Of course it is, he’s been walking half-drunk on just the sight of Merlin. Now, when he’s this close and he can _do_ things to him -- something he still can’t believe is happening -- he feels full-on wasted.  Completely trashed on Merlin.

And it still isn’t enough. Arthur closes his mouth over the spot on Merlin’s neck where it joins the shoulder and sucks on it.

“Fuck. Fuck,” Merlin says, and gasps when Arthur uses some teeth. “Oh fuck. I don’t... Right here?"

He bucks into Arthur when Arthur slides his hands under Merlin’s t-shirt to the small of his back and then pushes them inside Merlin’s jeans, squeezing Merlin’s arse in tight briefs. That should be answer enough that, _Yes. Here. Now. Fucking please._ And now Arthur thinks he’s found a new object of his obsession -- Merlin’s small but very perky arse. Jesus Christ, does this man have anything less than perfect?

Somewhere in the back of Arthur’s mind, he thinks that it's probably too fast, too soon, too _plunge-your-head-straight_ into something way beyond Arthur’s ever felt before, but he can't stop.  Even if it's about to happen in the hygiene-compromised stall of a cinema loo where they barely fit together and not, say, on the clean sheets of Arthur’s very comfortable, very large bed. He wants it. As long as it's what Merlin wants as well.

"Do you have anything?" Merlin pants, pushing his hand between them and starts fumbling with Arthur's belt. When his hand closes around Arthur’s dick, his every notion about doing it too soon or Merlin’s possibly having a notion they’re going too fast, goes out the window. They’re doing it. Here. Now. And no one should bloody dare to even think about stopping them.

Arthur nods that yes, he does, and takes Merlin's mouth again. Stretches it wide, kissing him long and deep, using this as a way of showcasing to Merlin how it's going to be. He will stretch him, stuff him full, and give him an Oscar-worthy performance Merlin will never forget. Arthur will take no prisoners.

And Merlin surrenders. Sags into Arthur with his entire body, spreads his legs, and lets Arthur touch him. Do whatever he wants with him, squeeze, pinch and knead, first through his briefs, then with Arthur's hand sneaking under the waistband and grabbing his naked flesh, spreading him with his fingers, touching his--

Someone's clearing their throat in the stall next to them.

Arthur and Merlin freeze. Holding their breath, they stare at each other and try to stay perfectly still. Merlin looks completely mortified, with his mouth open and eyes wild.

“Oh my god,” he mouths.

Arthur presses him against the wall and whispers, “Shhhh,” his hands squeezing Merlin’s arsecheeks.

If he meant it to be reassuring, it has an opposite effect.  Merlin jerks and hisses, surprised, and Arthur finds that they’re both still rock-hard, and dammit, this could be the most glorious shag if not for some cockblocking bastard’s nature calling.

Nothing else happens, and Arthur starts to think that it was just the water pipes making a noise, but the moment is ruined already, of course. They look at each other, lingering, and then part reluctantly. Merlin’s pout is back in place as they straighten their clothes. They wait another minute, in complete silence, and then Arthur wiggles his thumb, checking if Merlin’s ready to go, and Merlin sighs and nods yes.

Arthur quietly unlocks and opens the door and peers outside. The loo is as empty as it was when they walked in.

Arthur waves his hands that there’s no one there and walks out first. Merlin follows him in a moment. They can’t leave right away, even if for the simple reason that they’re both waddling and still sporting uncomfortable erections. Arthur adjusts himself. They wash their hands, looking at each other in the reflection of the mirror, Merlin looking especially put off.

Arthur turns to him.

“What?” Merlin asks.

“Distracting me again?”

Merlin laughs and splashes some water at him. 

When they hear a shuffling noise coming from the middle stall, they aren’t even that surprised. Arthur peeks under the door and nods, pointing at it. He thinks of something and starts grinning. Merlin gapes at him, not understanding at first, but then Arthur leans in and kisses him on the mouth; he does it again, softly, invitingly. Merlin sighs into the third kiss, his eyes going a little cross, and Arthur’s heart _thump-thumps_ at the sight of this Merlin: horny, sweet, trusting. And --he wants to think -- already _his._

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur says and shuffles them to position Merlin with his back to the sinks.

Merlin catches on. With Arthur’s supportive hands, he hops to sit on the top of the vanity, and, spreading his legs for Arthur to stand between, hooks his ankles around his waist.

Arthur claps his hand on the back of Merlin’s neck. “The members of the Academy are watching,” he murmurs, “we better make this one good.” And he pulls Merlin into the kind of a kiss that he’s sure will turn their Peeping Tom a little gay, if he isn’t already.   

 

~*~

 

Considering how it’s turned out with the movie night (Arthur could argue it wasn’t all that bad at the end after all; that kiss was spectacular!), Merlin seems to want to take it slow. He chooses the next venue, and they end up at some Mediterranean place. It’s hardly a restaurant by any definition, and Arthur would never pick it out himself. But Merlin explains that he’s paying, that the place serves the best vegetarian shawarma in the city, and that Arthur must try their Barg kebab, which is basically lamb grilled on skewers.

They order a lot, drink mediocre wine, talk and laugh, linking their greasy fingers together and ignoring the dirty looks from some of the less open-minded patrons, and at some point, Arthur even steals a quick kiss from Merlin over the empty plates. The food is great. The company is outstanding. This is probably the best date Arthur’s ever had. Not probably. _The_ best.

They end up at Arthur’s place, and he can see that Merlin’s trying very hard not to gape or show how impressed and maybe even intimidated he is by the house. And Arthur supposes that his 6-bedroom, 6-bathroom property, with the terrace and communal garden, contrasts deeply with the joint they’ve just comfortably spent their evening at. He can also willingly admit that this house is too much even for him, although he’s not used to anything less posh.

Arthur decides not to let any of it bother Merlin, and he knows just the thing to make it happen.

It’s called blowjobs on the couch.

 

 

**June 28th, 2013**

 

"So you’re dating Merlin, then?”

“What have I been telling you, Doc? Are you listening?”

“Yes, of course. Tell me more about him.”

“Oh, he’s… brilliant. The real Merlin is something special. He’s even better."

"Better than...?"

"Better than the surreal one."

"Are you able to tell the difference?"

“Isn't it late, Doc? What time do you have on your clock?”

“No clocks, Arthur.”

“Aren’t you getting paid by the hour?”

“Are you feeling all right, Arthur? You're shivering.”

“I'm feeling like dog’s bollocks.”

“You still didn’t answer my q-- Ow! Arthur! What are you doing?”

“Oh, stop bricking it, Doc. ‘S just a pinch.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Seeing if I'd wake up."

“You think you're dreaming? Normally, people pinch themselves for that.”

“I’ve moved on from that stage.”

“Didn’t work?”

“I’m still here, am I not?"

"So, now you’ll be going around pinching people to cope with reality?”

“I’m considering _punching_ them -- as an alternative."

“Not sure your method would help to keep you out of trouble.”

“You never know, Doc. Some people are into that stuff.” 

“I know _I’m_ not. Tell me, Arthur, when you did it, how did it make you feel?”

“After being here for god knows how long, being practically force-fed, confined without fresh air, and having spent all my time I don’t talk to you in the most uncomfortable bed with a rock-solid pillow and a blanket so worn out it’s probably seen the days of a Hundred Years’ War, I think I’d want to see you squirm a bit, too. I don't care whether it happens in the state of delusion or not.”

“You wanted me uncomfortable.”

“Yes, I did. Now tell me, Doc, how did it make you feel?”

“Touche, Arthur. I’d like to talk about something else now.”

“What would that be this time?”

“I’ve results of your tests back.”

“Oh yeah? Should I worry?”

 

**End of Part I**


	2. Chapter 2

**PART II**

  

**June 15th, 2013**

 

“Take a left here.”

 “Merlin, are you sure we’re going in the right direction? We’re in the middle of nowhere!”

“Of course I’m sure. Right turn next, slow down, watch for the hole there.”

“How do you know there’s a hole? You don’t even drive.”

“I drive, you arse. You _saw_ me drive. I just don’t own a car. My mate lets me borrow his, or drops me off here and picks me up later.”

“What mate?”

“I mentioned him before. He studies photography. I provide him with some materials for shoots. He’s pretty brilliant.”

Arthur tells himself that Merlin and he have only been dating for a few weeks; he shouldn't be jealous of some nameless person Merlin finds brilliant. He’s probably a dick anyway, if he leaves Merlin here all by himself.

“Let’s stop here,” Merlin suggests a few minutes later and points to the side of the road ahead. “Your posh car is too low to go on.”

“Oi! It’s not posh; it’s elegant and built for speed,” Arthur objects. He pats the wheel. “He doesn’t mean it, baby.”

“Oh no, I mean it. There’s no trunk in this car. It has zero practicality,” Merlin insists with a serious face.

“There’s a trunk!”

Merlin scoffs. “I could barely fit my bag in there.”

“I could fit _you_ in there,” Arthur promises.

“Whatever, Arthur. Leave it here. We don't need speed where we're going, anyway. ”

“You want me to leave it right here?”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Relax, nothing’s going to happen to your baby. No one’s gonna steal it. It’ll be fine.”

Merlin’s probably right. They haven’t seen a single car for miles now. They get out and stretch their legs.

“What is this place?” Arthur asks. There are no road signs and he hasn't seen any for a while.

Merling looks around with a bit of a dreamy expression. “Don't you find it peaceful? I like that it’s a bit out of the way. I come here to experiment.”

“Experiment?”

“Yeah. Over there.” Merlin points to a single-level structure behind the trees growing sparsely along the road. They start to walk. “It’s an old barn. The entire estate has been abandoned. No one ever comes here.”

“You don’t mind being here by yourself?”

“Not at all. I like it that way. It’s quiet, gives me ability to think, and this far from everything, I don't have to worry about someone else’s safety during my tests.”

Up close, the structure is less than impressive: slightly crooked, with washed-out walls, cracked windows sealed over with pieces of tape, and a door hanging on rusty hinges.

Arthur grabs Merlin’s sleeve. “What exactly do you do here?”

Merlin smiles, a bit mischievously, his eyes dancing with mirth. “Worried about your pretty behind?”

Arthur huffs. “What? No. What. _Merlin._..” He pulls Merlin to a stop and before he can object, presses him playfully against the wall of the barn. “Did you just call my arse ‘pretty’?”

“Arthur!” Merlin laughs but doesn’t try to free himself. Not at all. He actually wraps his leg over Arthur’s thigh and brings him closer.

Their hips connect, and having Merlin this close does something to Arthur. He flushes all over, going a bit dizzy with a sudden rush of lust. What Merlin does to him every time is mad. Arthur planned to behave, tried to keep his hands to himself and keep up with a conversation the entire -- long -- ride to this place, and now they’re somewhere outside London. Arthur has no idea where and can’t be arsed to be concerned with the exact location. All he’s concerned with is Merlin, who’s currently seducing him with small hitches of his hips, alighting Arthur’s whole body. The effect it has on Arthur is so immediate and strong, his knees go weak, and if Merlin wasn’t holding Arthur, he’d probably tumble to the ground already.

“Merlin… Merlin…” Arthur’s shaky hands find Merlin’s back, fingers mapping the planes of his shoulders, and slide up to grip at his nape.

He clutches Merlin’s hair as if touching him is a matter of his survival. As if he’s been thrown into the deep end of a raging sea, and Merlin is his buoy to keep him from drowning. 

Merlin kisses him. Holds Arthur’s face firmly between his hands and kisses him. And Arthur’s gone. Lost all air from his burning lungs. All blood from his brain. All his ability to think properly, to remember that he’s Arthur, he’s twenty-eight, ranked most eligible bachelor in England, and if someone sees him here, like this, being thoroughly ravished, they'll say he’s lost his mind and dignity completely. Fuck sanity, fuck ranks. He doesn’t need a name. His body is not his body anymore. It’s made of heat and light. A myriad of microscopic flecks of hot stuff that grow bright and big. Bigger and hotter still, filling Arthur’s entire being. Grow until there’s no more space in him, his heart and skin giving out, and he can't hold it in anymore -- he explodes. Bursts into stardust and floats into space.

Arthur jerks under the press of Merlin's hips and comes, his mind broken a little. Gasping, he goes slack in Merlin’s arms.

“Fuck, Arthur,” Merlin pants. “So hot.”

Arthur blinks, coming down to Earth and realising what’s happened. “Oh God. Merlin, I’m sorry. Fuck…”

He tries to push Merlin away, but Merlin doesn’t let him. He kisses Arthur’s jaw.

“No, it’s all right. You looked like you needed it. You're always so tense, like you carry too much on your shoulders.”

Arthur rubs the side of his face. "I'm not sure what just happened."

Merlin smiles and tilts his head so he can place another kiss on Arthur’s mouth. "Well..."

He steps back a little, his eyes dropping to Arthur’s crotch.

Arthur looks down and winces. “Yes, like a goddamn teenager.”

Merlin grins. “Come on, you’ll need something to clean up. Let’s go inside.”

Arthur notes that Merlin’s still sporting an impressive bulge in his jeans. “Fuck. You…” He pulls him back into the wall again, starts fumbling with the buttons of Merlin’s fly.

Merlin tries to stop him. “It’s okay. I wasn’t expecting--”

But Arthur doesn’t listen. He drops to his knees, holding on to Merlin, keeps one hand on his hip, and quickly works the fly open, pulling Merlin’s jeans down a little. Merlin makes a stifled groan when Arthur lets his cock spring out. It's lovely -- pink and long, with a slight curve towards his stomach, and already wet with pre-come -- and Arthur catches it with his mouth. And it’s easy from here to take the entire slick length in, let it slide in and out at an almost vicious pace, because although Arthur’s body is somewhat sated, his mind hasn’t caught on to it. It’s weird how misaligned these two entities are. He's still horny, and _needs_ Merlin. So much, he doesn't care about the wet, rocky ground, hard under his knees while his mind is reeling from the taste of Merlin in his mouth and the sounds he’s making while coming down Arthur’s throat. It doesn’t matter. It’s all good. It’s brilliant. Being with Merlin like this is brilliant.

Arthur closes his eyes and sighs, suddenly tired. So tired, he blanks out for a moment, with his hands still clutching at the back of Merlin’s thighs and his forehead pressed into Merlin’s stomach.

“Arthur.” Merlin runs his hand through Arthur’s hair. “You all right? Hey... Arthur?”

“‘M good,” Arthur mumbles. “‘M really good. Give me a moment.”

His words are muffled, but somehow Merlin gets it. They stay like this for a bit, in complete silence, until Arthur starts shivering and Merlin pulls him up.

They look at each other, smiling sheepishly and shaking their heads.

“Is it always going to be like this with you?” Arthur asks, wiping the embarrassing spot in front of his jeans with the napkin offered by Merlin.

“I was going to ask you the same,” Merlin says, buttoning up his fly.

“Well then,” Arthur answers vaguely, since the truth is he wouldn’t mind at all.

 

~*~

  

Although the barn is run-down outside, it appears well-taken care of and lived-in inside. 

Arthur blinks a few times, getting used to the semi-darkness of the place while Merlin fumbles behind him, and moments later, the place is lit up with a soft light above their heads.

“You have electricity here?” Arthur asks.

“Weird, huh?” Merlin says. “I guess the owners don’t care about the bill. All the better for me.”

“And what happens if they shut it off?”

Merlin’s mouth curves into an impish smile. “I’m prepared.” He points at the row of lanterns on the floor by the door. “Those are battery-operated and can run for days if I ever need to.” 

Arthur imagines Merlin sitting here alone in the dark, surrounded by lanterns, and shakes his head. “You are so strange.”

“Hey, if all of this comes free of charge, why not take advantage?”

“I’d probably do the same,” Arthur admits. “So, what is this place?” He waves around.

The space is fairly large and divided in two rooms by half-wall. One room is considerably larger, with stacked-up boxes and shelves full of things, some of which he already recognises: mortar pipes of various sizes, plywood, cables. The smaller room has two large windows and a long table by the wall between them. The table is filled with lab instruments, test tubes and flasks, corks, wires, labeled jars.

Arthur spins around to look at Merlin. “What’s all this?”

Merlin is on his knees in front of one of the shelves, shoving something into his bag. He gets to his feet. “Absolutely not what you think. I’m not running a drug ring here, all right? This is where I design shells.”

“Shells…”

“I make my own samples of the fireworks. You know, experiment with timing, strength, colour. Especially colour.” Merlin’s eyes light up. “It all depends what components you add inside.”

“Isn’t it, like, illegal?” Arthur asks.

Merlin scratches his head. “Well... I don’t hold large amounts. I don’t make anything for sale. And I’m about to have my degree, so I have a very good idea about chemical compounds and mixes. I develop and test ideas for new firework displays. On a very small scale, of course. And I use black powder, which is a low explosive and I make it myself. It's really not that dangerous.”

“Merlin.” Arthur touches his arm. “I’m not going to report you or anything. I actually think it’s pretty bloody badass.”

A tentative smile touches the corners of Merlin’s mouth. “Yeah?”

“Fuck yeah! Gonna show me how it’s made? You brought me here for something, didn’t you?”

“Well, no. I was just gonna pick up a few things…” Merlin zips up his bag and pulls it on his shoulder. “Ready to go back?”

“Already? After all the driving I’ve just done?” He isn't lying; he _is_ feeling a bit winded and lightheaded, maybe because of the orgasm he’s just experienced. And he’s happy to have this opportunity to see closely this side of Merlin that attracted Arthur to him in the first place. He pokes Merlin in the shoulder.  “No way. Go on, Merlin. Show me, Merlin.”

Merlin bites his lip and looks outside the window.

Arthur pokes him in the shoulder again. “Show me, Merlin.” And again. “Show me.” Again. “ _Mer_ lin.”

Merlin slaps his hand away, still fumbling with his bag. “Don’t be a bully.”

Arthur laughs. At the table, he picks up a jar with something that looks like a white powder in it. “What’s this?”

Merlin glances at it. “Sulfur.”

“What’s it for?”

“It's a modifier. To lower the ignition temperature and increase the gas output.”

“Oh, like if you ate a lot of beans...”

"What?" Merlin looks at Arthur, his brows knitting together in incomprehension and then shooting up. "Are you... Is that a fart joke?”

Arthur makes a straight face. “No." He purses his lips, trying to stop himself from grinning. "Maybe... Too soon?”

Merlin starts laughing. "Oh my God, you’re such a cabbage-head... Actually, the concept is similar.”

"There you go. So, you're basically having a degree in beans.”

"Oh, stuff it. Give me that." Merlin takes the jar away from Arthur. He places it back on the table where it was before. “All right, you want to know how it works?"

“And see how you do it,” Arthur adds, figuring Merlin’s in a good enough mood now to allow that as well.

“It’s a very long, laborious process. Hours and days of work. I’ll show you the basics.”

In the next half-hour, Merlin tells Arthur all about the magic of oxidizers, modifiers, and binders to create a black powder, which apparently is made out of chemicals mixed with water, of all things.

"You actually need water to make fire..." Arthur wonders in disbelief.

"Yes." Merlin nods. "To bind chemicals together. You first make a dough, and then cut and handcraft it into shapes -- stars, for example -- then let it dry. This is the light and the colour behind every firework."

With animated hands, Merlin breaks down the mechanics behind the science, explaining to Arthur about fuses, bursting charges, lift charges, aerial shells.

“Each component of an aerial shell is made by hand,” Merlin says, his voice high with excitement. “The entire process of manufacturing fireworks is actually manual. It’s truly a handcraft, Arthur. It’s art!”

Arthur smiles. “I can see that now. And it’s probably too dangerous to use electrical tools around gun powder.”

“Exactly!” Merlin looks like he’s about to hug Arthur, and Arthur wouldn’t mind that. He finds that he wouldn’t mind listening to Merlin talk shop for hours, as long as he gets to see him this fired up and happy. “I’m going to show you something. Look.”

He takes a mere pinch of black powder and distributes it carefully on the piece of sheet metal.

“Using gun powder alone is not that exciting.” He sticks a short string as a fuse to it and ignites it.

Merlin’s right -- it just burns through the powder and makes a lot of smoke. Nothing fancy.

“But if I add some metal salt to it…” He cleans the sheet, adds another fuse, a pinch of black powder, and some other powder from a jar. “This is a mixture of strontium and copper compounds.”

When he lights up the mix, it burns deep purple.

“See?” Merlin grins. “Now, this…” He makes a new batch of mixed powders. “...is strontium carbonate.” The fire burns bright red.

Consumed in what he’s doing, Merlin brushes away hair fallen forwards and leaves a black streak across his forehead. It makes him look younger, more open and vulnerable somehow, and Arthur knows right there, at that instant, that he’s done for. He’s in deep.

“And this…” Merlin says, “...is a bit of iron with carbon and charcoal. Look, Arthur!” The mixture on the metal plate dances with sparks of pure gold. Arthur makes a sound of surprise, and Merlin looks at him with nothing but triumph and joy in his eyes. “Isn’t it brilliant?”

“Oh, Merlin,” Arthur says and reaches out to brush off the black smudge from his face. “ _You_ ’re brilliant.”

Merlin’s smile is blinding.

“I want to show you something else,” he says, whispering the words for some reason. “It’ll be just for you. You'll be my first ever spectator here.”

“Okay,” Arthur agrees immediately. “I’m honoured.”

Merlin’s cheeks colour. He ducks his head. “Yes. Well…Don’t let it get to your head.  As is, I’m worried about its size.”

“ _Mer_ lin.” Arthur smiles teasingly. “Did you just make a compliment to my dick?”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “And you’ve just proved my point.” He disappears in the other room and comes back with his hands full. “I’m going outside to set up. It will take a bit of time. Can you wait here? Just keep your paws from everything. I mean it.”

“Fine. Sure.”

Arthur sits down on the only chair in the entire place -- next to the table -- and sighs. He’s a bit uneasy with slight nausea, and his head is foggy. Maybe it’s all the smoke he’s inhaled while Merlin experimented with the compounds, or maybe it’s the long, bumpy drive and the fact that it’s been hours since they ate or had anything to drink. Probably the smoke…

“Arthur, hey…”  Merlin’s voice and a firm shake of the shoulder jolt him awake. “Are you okay?”

Arthur’s elbow flies out, barely missing Merlin’s face, and he jumps to his feet, disoriented, his breath quickened, and with his fists raised in a defensive position.

Merlin scrambles out of his way, his mouth going slack, eyes round. The stunned expression on Merlin’s face sends an alarm into Arthur’s brain. He lowers his hands, blinking.

“What…” He looks around, slowly remembering where he is, and he rubs his face. “...the fuck.”

Merlin takes a tentative step forward. “Arthur…”

Arthur shakes his head. “Sorry about that. Automatic reaction. Did I fall asleep?”

“Looks like it,” Merlin answers, sounding relieved. “Sorry, it took me longer than expected, but the conditions are perfect now. Bad dream?”

Arthur has no idea. But just to offer something and pacify Merlin, he says, “Yeah, something like that.”

Merlin silently hands him a bottle of water.

Arthur checks outside the window and finds that it’s already dark. He squirms a little and asks, “Loo?”

“Outside.” Merlin gestures. “Pick a spot. Any spot. Be aware of poison ivy.”

“Are you implying I’m a _girl_ , Merlin?” he asks, still feeling a bit shaky and happy to defuse the lingering tension.

Merlin scratches his neck, making an innocent face and looking away.

“Wanker.” Arthur jokingly shoves Merlin in the shoulder and jogs out.

Merlin laughs after him.

When Arthur walks back in, Merlin isn’t there anymore. He finds him behind the barn, waving a flashlight to indicate his whereabouts, which is a small distance away. Merlin’s standing by a line of thin, long pipes sticking out of the ground and biting his nails. Arthur thinks he understands how Merlin feels. He knows what it’s like to reveal something special to you to someone else. He gives Merlin a reassuring smile.

“What have you there?”

“All right, here it goes,” Merlin murmurs, almost as if to himself.

He works something out with his hands, and goes to stand next to Arthur. “Watch, don't blink.”

At first, it’s a solid wall of white sparks shooting up from the pipes in perfectly straight lines. It’s a little too bright, too intense to Arthur’s eyes, prickling uncomfortably between his eyes, but then it slowly calms down, losing its juice, and new fireworks go off behind it -- several shapes bloom in green and golden colour. One is a large oval, a few smaller ones attaching to it, as well as two shaky triangles on the top. A rocket whirls around, creating a thick curl on the side of the large oval, and a fraction of a second later, a fireball goes across the sky -- bright-red with streaks of gold. It shoots through the shapes and bursts into a cloud of sparks.

And for one suspended moment, Arthur sees it -- what all these shapes and lines mean to be. It’s a dragon. With four limbs, a neck and a head bending forwards, two wings, and a tail curling up from the dragon’s rear. And that’s not all. A streak of the fiery dust coming out of what’s unmistakably a dragon’s mouth is a cloud of the creature’s breath.

The image is fleeting, flashing only for long enough to imprint itself in Arthur’s mind and make, quite possibly, one of the brightest memories he's ever had. And then the shapes start slowly spreading out, dissolving, and disappear completely.

Stunned, Arthur blinks dancing lights off and turns to Merlin. "And you made all this?"

Merlin nods, the last of the dying sparks shooting up from the pipes reflecting on his face, his eyes shining. "It's called The Breath of a Dragon. I'm showcasing it tomorrow at a fairly large fireworks show."

“Merlin, that’s brilliant!”

Merlin bites his lip. “Yeah. But it’s not the best part.”

Arthur gapes a little. “There’s something better?”

Merlin glances at him. “Yes.” He looks like he wants to say something, and if he doesn’t, he’ll burst at the seams.

Arthur bumps his shoulder. “You’re not gonna tell me?”

“Yeah, okay… But, shhhh. So, you know how I said the gun powder’s an essential part that makes fireworks go boom?”

Arthur nods. “And you mix it with other things for colouring.”

Merlin’s eyes brighten again. “Yes! But I didn’t use it tonight.”

His hands become animated, and he starts hopping from foot to foot, which is kind of funny for a tall, wiry bloke like Merlin. And also endearing.

“I did something different,” Merlin continues, and Arthur holds his breath, feeling he’s about to be let in on something so big, he needs to pay close attention. “Instead of a gun powder, I used compressed air for launching the fireworks, which is a lot safer for the environment. Do you know how toxic fireworks are, Arthur? You saw what goes into just one shell. Imagine what it does to our air when hundreds of them go off, thousands. Every night. This is how I got into fireworks, actually -- I wrote a research paper on the tall chemicals and heavy metals take on our environment and ended up falling in love with the bloody thing instead.”

Merlin glances at Arthur and stills for a moment, his face turning more serious.  “So yeah. I’m not being original about the compressed air idea -- Disney pioneered it. I don’t want you to assume I \-- omph!”

Arthur pulls him into his arms. "You're incredible." Squeezes him tighter. “I knew you’d be a catch.”

Merlin stays patiently still and then says in a strangled voice, “Arthur, you’re suffocating me. Let go, please.”

“Ha!” Arthur headlocks Merlin instead and proceeds to give him a noogie.

 

~*~

 

“So the thing you did with the compressed air, it sounds expensive. Do you have some sort of a ‘know-how’?” Arthur asks, helping Merlin cleaning up. “How do you fund all this equipment? Do you have a sponsor or something?”

“Uhm,” is the only reply Merlin offers.

Arthur isn’t sure if it’s the stupid noogie or his possibly too invasive questions about his research -- because it's _interesting_ \-- or maybe it’s him being too clingy for Merlin’s taste, but Merlin’s acting twitchy and appears a bit too eager to go back to the city all of a sudden.

“I think I’m ready to go home now,” he says, navigating back inside the barn to pick up his things and place a lock on the door.

“I’m starving, wanna stop for a bite when we reach civilization?” Arthur asks, hoping food will pick them up.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, walking briskly towards the place they parked Arthur’s car. To be honest, Arthur doubts he would’ve found the way without Merlin. “Not today, all right?”

Arthur sighs quietly. “Yeah... I’ll drive you home, then.”

Merlin shakes his head, waiting for Arthur to unlock the car. “Just drop me off at the station, same one. If that’s all right.”

“Why?” Arthur opens the door and stops, looking at Merlin, although he can’t see his face properly in the dark.

“I’m staying with my mate tonight. Early day tomorrow.”

“Mate?”

“Yes. Will. The photographer I told you about.”

“Ah, right, the brilliant one.” Arthur’s voice gives away his disapproval. More than a disapproval. He’s bloody jealous and is failing to hide it. Should he hide it?

Merlin doesn’t answer, and aside from providing the directions to reach the motorway, he stays quiet for the rest of the drive. It’s awkward and confusing.

Arthur’s exhausted, hungry, and now he’s not in the greatest of moods. He’s like a kid crashing after a giant sugar rush. He hates the rough ride -- his Panamera is completely unsuitable for unpaved roads -- with each bump, his stomach flip-flops and his teeth clench. It’s never happened to him before, but even the familiar sweet smell of the leather seats, which has always been one of his favourite things about the car, bothers him this evening.

He doesn’t want to comment on it, but after a while, he notices that Merlin keeps regarding him with a considering, careful eye. He _feels_ it -- Merlin’s stare drilling into the side of his skull -- and it’s fucking weird. It’s making him nervous, uneasy to the point of wanting to stop the car, bend over and  throw up, but every time he glances at Merlin, Merlin’s already looking away.

The day’s been good, it’s been fantastic, and now it’s not, and Arthur doesn’t know what to do about it, except it doesn’t seem fair that Merlin won’t just say whatever it is exactly Arthur’s done wrong. And Arthur can’t bring himself to ask, so he retreats into himself even more.

They’re finally in London, and it’s late. Back into the familiar turf, and he still doesn’t feel right.

They approach the tube station Arthur picked up Merlin from this morning, and Arthur feels the need to ask one more time, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Arthur. Thank you for doing this for me.”

Arthur squeezes a smile out. “Any time.”

Merlin nods and scrambles out of the car.

“Merlin,” Arthur calls, confused, very confused. “I'll call, yeah?”

Merlin tilts his head, and Arthur hates that he looks like he isn’t sure. But then Merlin smiles and says, “Sure.”

Arthur can’t help it; he leans towards Merlin and beckons for him to come closer. Merlin does, thank God, and Arthur pulls him by his jacket back inside, breathes him in and kisses him. “Good luck with the show.”

Arthur contemplates all next day about calling or texting Merlin and refrains. Even the idea that Merlin could be annoyed by him sends him into a depressive mood. He should leave him alone, let him breathe.

The resolution lasts until two o'clock in the morning. He can't sleep -- even the sleeping pill isn't working -- but he's oddly relaxed. Floaty, even. And when a particularly graphic set of images of him taking Merlin in his mouth and licking and sucking his head slowly and thoroughly until Merlin comes makes him painfully horny and acutely lonely, he sends him a text.

_Hope the show was a success. Have dinner with me. Arthur._

Of course, Merlin doesn't answer at this hour. Of course, Arthur can't help the worry that Merlin is never going to answer. That worry, like a splinter, lodges itself in his chest and has Arthur lie still and quiet, keeping him somewhere between awareness and a slumber for the rest of the night.

 

 

**June 17th, 2013**

 

“Anything new on Agravaine?” Arthur asks when Leon settles with his lunch in Arthur’s office.

Leon has been reporting findings and any new activities at least twice a week now.

Leon sips his hot-and-sour soup and shakes his head. “Nothing to suspect him of anything foul. His accounts are clean. He buys and sells stock frequently through the brokerage firm, but since we have restriction windows, he doesn’t have a lot of freedom, so nothing suspicious going on there. Visits a couple of places regularly: has poker night every Friday, and sees some girl in Chelsea every Saturday and sometimes Wednesdays. He bought her a flat there.” Leon pushes the pictures to Arthur.

Arthur glances at them without interest. “All right, what else?”

“There’s an interesting piece of information I was able to find on Cenred.”

“Yes?”

“I’m hearing he’s being chummy with our competition.”

Arthur places his elbow on the table with his hand curled into a fist. “What?”

“And quite literally.”

“Who?”

“I’m looking into it,” Leon says.

“Where is this coming from?”

“He bragged recently at a private event that no one can resist his charm, even the enemy.”

“So, it’s just gossip. I don’t care who he shags; he signed an NDA.”

“Worth a look into, you never know,” Leon suggests.

“Sure. Just don’t waste your time on hearsay.”

“That goes without saying, Arthur. I'm just doing my job, and I don’t think we can overlook this.”

“I agree. What else?”

Leon opens another folder.

“Odin is feuding with his only son. They’ve been seen arguing this weekend during the charity cricket match. Appears to be due to Odin’s disagreement with his son’s lifestyle.”

“I’ve heard that somewhere before,” Arthur mutters.

“I bet you did,” Leon agrees. “He broke off his engagement to date a bloke.”

“Ah,” Arthur says, smiling. “Karma.” He hasn’t forgotten overhearing Odin calling him a poof and a sniveller in a conversation with his father after Arthur came out to Uther at eighteen.

“You can say that, I guess.”

“But that’s family business and not concerning us,” Arthur says.

“True. But his homophobic views on public display may hurt our image.”

“With a not openly declared, but very gay CEO? But you’re right. Did you talk to Morgana about this?”

“There’s something else actually I need to show you…”

Arthur holds his hand out for Leon to pass him another folder he has on his knee, but Leon’s not in a hurry.

“I need you to keep your head on when you see this, Arthur,” he says.

Arthur snaps his eyes to Leon’s face. “What is it?”

“It’s… Just promise me to stay calm, okay?”

“Leon, I don’t need you to bloody mollycoddle me.”

Arthur hates when Leon makes a face that is completely void of expression, because what it means is Leon judges and disagrees -- strongly. He just knows how to do it without coming off unprofessional.

“Give it to me, Leon. I won’t fly off the handle, all right?”

Leon’s mouth twitches, and he hands the folder over to Arthur while keeping his eyes on his face.

Arthur flips it open.

Morgana.

Morgana talking and gesturing during some meeting. The picture is blurry and at a weird angle, but there’s no doubt it’s her.

Morgana standing by Gwen’s desk, smiling and handing some papers to her.

Morgana in her yoga kit, her hair in a ponytail, crossing the street with a cup of coffee in her hand.

Morgana at the grocery store, burying her nose into a large green apple in her hands with her eyes closed.

Morgana sitting in the passenger seat of some car, her face angling towards the driver.

Morgana in the same car, and the driver handing something to her.

Morgana jogging in the park.

Morgana through the window of her flat, walking around in her bra and underpanties.

Most pictures are grainy, low quality, obviously taken with an unprofessional camera from a distance away.

“What the hell is this?” Arthur asks.

“Arthur, I’m not going to tell you how I came about these pictures, this shows that Morgana's being stalked.”

“Bloody hell.” Arthur takes a deep breath; he promised Leon. “Do we know who it is?”

“Yes we do.”

“And?”

“It _is_ Odin.” 

“That fucking creep!” Arthur shoots up, his chair flipping over.

“Arthur…” Leon warns.

Arthur walks to the window on cotton legs, glances out. Runs his hand roughly through his hair. How can he be calm? He’s seeing red. He’s sweating. His hands shake uncontrollably. He cannot be calm. He has to… He has to… Arthur looks around for something to ground him. If he doesn’t find a way to uncork his brain and let the steam out, he’ll…

“Arthur, she’s safe. I have someone keeping an eye on her at all hours. She’s being protected, Arthur,” Leon says quietly.

All right. That helps. It’s small comfort, but it does help Arthur to find and grab onto one flimsy end of his nearly-slipped-out mind and pull it back to him. He can see some sense again.

“I don’t want her to know yet,” he says when he regains control of his body.

“Arthur, it’s her right--”

“I’m aware, Leon. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?”

“Leave the files on the table. I’m late for a meeting,” Arthur says, staring out the window. “Thank you, Leon.”

Leon leaves quietly.

Arthur walks into the private restroom adjacent to his office and locks the door.

_That fucker._ He’s been drooling over Morgana since she was sixteen, and it turns out he never got over his obsession. _That bloody pervert._

Arthur turns on the water and washes his face, presses his wet, cold hand to the back of his neck, and waits for the vice of panic gripping his chest and head  to let go.

That fucking old creep.

This is not helping. With shaking fingers, Arthur takes out a green pill from the pocket of his trousers and quickly sends it into his mouth. He crushes it with his teeth and sips some water right from the tap. This is too much. This is all too much, and he doesn’t know how to handle any of it.

He slides against the door to the cool, tiled floor, extends his legs out, and grips his head between his hands. He remembers another time the eighteen-year-old him was in a similar position here, after he’d yelled in Uther’s face, “I’m gay, father! I shag blokes and I enjoy it!” and was slapped with a heavy hand across his cheek.

The eighteen-year-old him had thought the entire world was against him. He cried. Alone. Misunderstood. Unloved. Rejected. He knows now that Uther didn’t care where Arthur was sticking it. He knows that because Uther trusted him with the only thing that mattered to him more than probably even his own children -- he had trusted him with Pendragon PH.

Uther Pendragon had zero tolerance for disrespect. Uther Pendragon didn’t allow _weakness_.

And what else, if not weakness, Arthur is showing right now? The world may still be against him, but doesn’t Arthur have a few tricks up his sleeve?

Fifteen minutes later, Arthur steps out of the restroom freshened up, with his mind made up, and feeling so good about it, he’s almost euphoric.

“Gwen, Gwen, Gwen,” he sing-songs, smiling at his assistant on his way to Morgana. “How is Lance?”

Arthur isn’t sure how someone’s eyebrows can arch up and form a frown at the same time, but Gwen appears to be a master of that particular technique.

“Since when do you care?”

He smiles wide. “Always did.”

Her brows do another bunny-hop jump, and Arthur snickers at that, it’s so comical.

“Ri-i-i-ight,” Gwen says. “Are you high?”

Arthur laughs. “On hot-and-sour soup? No. Just have something figured out. It feels good, Gwen. I feel good. Is Morgana in her office?”

“Ask her assistant,” Gwen snaps.

“I’m asking _mine_.” Arthur twirls his finger at the phone on Gwen’s desk. “Go on. Make a call. Announce my immediate arrival to Her Majesty.”

“Arse,” Gwen mutters, picking up the receiver.

“And a handsome one.” Arthur raises his finger.

“I don’t know a single person who agrees.”

“Merlin does,” Arthur says.

“Who?” Gwen punches the number.

“Mer--”

Gwen silences him with a finger to her lips. “Viv, is Morgana in her office? Arthur wants to see her.” She nods to Arthur and gestures for him to go.

“He’s being particularly annoying today, beware,” he hears her saying, and he snorts.

 

~*~

 

 All his resolve and serenity goes out the window as soon as he steps into Morgana’s office. She’s not alone, and none other than fucking _Odin_ is sitting in one of the chairs by her desk. He’s smiling salaciously while leaning forwards and murmuring something Arthur can’t hear.

Morgana’s sitting straight like a stick, and stares sternly at the screen of her laptop, typing. Odin extends his hand to touch Morgana’s wrist.

“Mr Wenham.” Arthur’s bark is like the crack of a whip, and Odin snaps his head in his direction, his hand jerking to his lap. “I’d like to speak with Ms Pendragon alone.”

Morgana looks at Arthur with annoyance, which Arthur doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why she didn’t find the way to get rid of him long ago. Why he didn’t make an effort to do so himself is also a question he should be asking.

Odin scrambles to his feet and walks out, shooting Arthur a glare full of indignance. Arthur slams the door the second he steps out of the office. 

“What’s with the spectacle, Arthur?” Morgana asks, folding her arms over her chest.

“He’s a creep. I don’t know how you tolerate him,” he says, walking to her desk and sitting down. “Is he bothering you?”

“I’m not a little girl anymore. I can handle it,” she answers, pursing her lips.

“He belongs in jail,” Arthur says firmly.

“And he’ll go there, but at my bidding,” she says calmly.

Arthur’s mouth goes slack. “You _know_.”

“Know what?”

“That he’s been stalking you!”

Morgana gives him a furious look. “And how would you know? Mind your own business.”

“Are you serious?”

“I said, leave it alone. I’ll handle him.”

“While dead in a ditch somewhere?”

“You’ve always been prone to dramatics.” She sighs. “I’m not going to report him for snapping my pictures while I give presentations or go to Tesco. A restraining order will not solve the problem with Odin. And the company will suffer.”

Arthur gapes. “Are you insane?”

“I’m practical,” she says, clenching her teeth. “I know what I’m doing. It’s my decision.”

“To do what, exactly?”

“To remove him permanently and without him raising a stink and causing us a loss of investors.”

Arthur studies Morgana’s pale face. Her dark eyebrows and deep-red lipstick make her look harsher. And older. She’s barely thirty, but she looks like she’s lived a long, trying life already.

“So that’s your plan?” he asks, not believing her cold, measured demeanour about all this. “You’re okay with him being around you?”

“I’ve had _years_. I’m not afraid of him anymore... Do not stand in my way, Arthur.” She speaks slowly, deliberately, and in a tone that doesn’t invite any further conversation on the topic.

“No, sod that. I don’t care about what bloody investors we might lose. I don’t want him near you. Ever.”

Morgana’s eyes narrow. “You’re determined to ruin everything, aren’t you?”

“Me? What the fuck is wrong with you? You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. He’s dead, Morgana. And the last I checked, you weren’t running the company. I forbid you putting yourself in danger just to prove you have a bigger dick. Christ, Morgana.”

Arthur rubs his forehead, his hands are shaking again, and he has to take a few deep breaths to get his head back into a space where he can think properly again. It’s not working.

“Arthur?” Morgana calls.

He looks at her and gasps: her lips are blood-red and her head has grown in size. She licks her lips like a hungry harpy. And looks at Arthur like he’s something to eat. He pushes himself up, swinging his arm in front of him, and loses balance, flopping back on the chair.

“Get away from me,” he says weakly.

Morgana looms over him, saying something, her voice low, words garbled.

“I forbid you,” he says again, and tries to remember what was it that he didn’t want Morgana do. Something about danger and big dicks. “Jeee-sus,” he says slowly and closes his eyes.

A white dot appears in the pitch-black background of his vision. It grows and grows, stretching and spreading into something… A shape… Shapes... Letters… A word… Jesus… Five letters. One word. Big and bright-white. Yes, the word is “JESUS”. And then the word explodes, bursts with whistling sounds into a million flashing pieces -- like fireworks do -- and it blinds Arthur.

“Whoa, Merlin, did you see that?” Arthur says in awe.

“Jesus, Arthur,” Merlin says in Morgana’s voice.

“Exactly,” Arthur agrees. And everything goes blank.

 

~*~

 

The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes again, is Gwen’s face. He smiles and drawls, “Hey, darling.”

“I’m going to hit him,” Gwen says and turns to someone. “Can I hit him?”

“Just wait until you’re sure he’s going to remember that.” That’s Morgana.

“My two favourite girls in the whole wide world.”

“Is he drunk?” Gwen asks. “He’s been acting weird this whole morning. Who drinks in the morning?”

“No, I don’t think he’s drunk. I suspect something else.”

Gwen groans. “Christ, Arthur. I thought you were done with that!”

Arthur sits up. He’s in Morgana’s office, on her couch now. “Done with what?”

Morgana taps her chin and then sits down next to him. “Arthur, we need to tell Gaius.”

“Please don’t. I don’t need him moaning here. I’m just exhausted.”

“Too late,” Gaius says, walking into the room. “You’ll have to endure. Let me see.” He gestures for Morgana to make space.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m fine,” Arthur grumbles.

“You talked gibberish and blacked out. You call it fine?” Morgana half-yells. “Let Gaius examine you.”

Arthur sighs, resigned.

Gaius checks his pulse -- a little elevated. His eyes -- pupils a little dilated. His tongue--

“What are you checking my tongue for?” Arthur protests, but sticks his tongue out anyway. With Gaius, resistance is futile.

“You’re dehydrated. Morgana, water?”

Morgana brings a full glass and Arthur obediently drains it to the bottom.

“Squeeze back,” Gaius says, pressing his clammy fingers as a test. “I don’t see any obvious physical signs of distress. Are you getting any sleep, my boy? Or do you live on coffee?”

Arthur snorts. Morgana gives him a stern glare.

“He thinks he can do it all.”

“No, it’s you who thinks she can do it all,” Arthur snaps, remembering most of their conversation. He’s just unsure how it ended, exactly. Surely, not the way he recalls it did.

“I think she punched me. She knocked me out. That’s it, Gaius. That’s what happened,” he tells Gaus in a confidential voice. He turns to Morgana. “I’m going to sue.”

Morgana scowls. “Oh, I _will_ punch you.  Now. To give you a good reason.”

“See!” he says triumphantly, turning back to Gaius. “That’s what I have to deal with. Gwen, I’d like you to be my witness.”

“Of what?” she asks incredulously.

“Um… Of a heinous crime.”

“The one that happened when I wasn’t here? Or the one that hasn’t happened yet?”

“What? You’re confusing me.” Arthur scrubs his cheek. It _is_ a little confusing, actually. “Are you taking her side?”

Gwen sighs. “How could I? You’ll have no one left on yours.”

Morgana laughs. “Ouch.”

“Can I go now?” Arthur whines.

“Home. You can go home,” Gaius says. “No calls, no computer. Lots of water and sleep.”

Arthur rolls his eyes.

 

~*~

 

He doesn’t notice the text from Merlin until he’s home and has taken a shower.

_It went great. Thank you_ , he reads on the screen, and it’s pathetic how joyous and relieved he is, just seeing five little words.

_I knew it! Dinner? _he types quickly and glances at the clock.

It’s not even five yet. Plenty of time to make a reservation somewhere nice. He flips through the catalogue of places in his head, trying to decide where. He never did have a chance to wine and dine Merlin properly. Now they have a good reason for it.

Merlin doesn’t respond for almost an hour. _An hour_. Which nearly drives Arthur to distraction. Not able to wait any longer, he dials his number.

“Merlin?”

“Yeah,” Merlin answers, and Arthur’s heart lurches from the bad feeling he gets, hearing the reluctance in Merlin’s voice, but he’s not giving up.

“Wasn’t sure you got my text. I was asking about dinner tonight.”

Merlin doesn’t respond right away, sighing softly on the other end of the phone.

“Merlin?” Arthur prods.

“I have to study.”

Arthur sags onto the bed. “Oh.”

“Maybe another--” Merlin starts, but Arthur interrupts him.

“Tell me what’s wrong. Is it something I did?”

Merlin sighs again. Arthur can picture him tapping a finger on his head -- a nervous habit he’s noticed Merlin has.

“Merlin?”

Merlin lets out a loud heave of breath. “I like you, Arthur.”

Arthur huffs a laugh. “That’s great, hey. I--”

“No, wait, let me... finish this. You’re great, Arthur, really... Shite. I’m awful at this... Look, I think you’re funny. You’re smart. You’re a fantastic kisser.” Merlin groans. “God, you _are_.”

Arthur smiles at that, pleased. 

“And I don’t think you’re the posh wanker with a hidden agenda my friend Will insists you are, because he hates your kind.”

“Agenda… My kind…” Arthur echoes, unsure whether to be flattered or offended or where even this is all going. “Merlin--”

“Hang on. I mean, you’re not full of yourself, ‘s what I’m saying. And you’ve been _nice_. To date someone nice is almost a novelty to me. It’s almost tragic, you know? I _like_ you.”

Arthur frowns. Who wouldn’t want to be nice to Merlin? That’s ridiculous. He doesn’t say it, letting Merlin go on, since he’s starting to suspect there’s a “but” coming -- and that “but” will probably outweigh every other complimentary thing Merlin’s said so far.

“But…”

Here it goes.

“But sometimes you’re…” Merlin mutters a curse under his breath. “You’re… I don’t know. Are you okay, Arthur?”

“What?” Arthur’s confused by the turn of the conversation. “Why would I not be okay?”

“Sometimes you seem… Your moods change so quickly, Arthur. You go from chatty to sour in a matter of seconds, and I can’t seem to figure out what sets you off. And I start thinking maybe your niceness is just you being polite, because I… God… nevermind, it’s ridiculous… You don’t seem that kind of person. Arthur, I don’t know how to take it… It’s very confusing.”

Arthur’s stunned to silence.

“Arthur? Oh God. Arthur, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply...” Merlin’s babbling. “Please say something.”

Arthur starts to say, “This is--”  but his throat’s too dry and he has to clear it several times. “I didn’t realise… Merlin, I’ve been under a lot of pressure. My company. My sister. Politics. It gets to me sometimes, you know? That’s all. And... Polite? That’s not even... I like you, too, Merlin.”

“No, I understand. Good. But I think you need to sort it out, because it’s really messing with my head. I don’t want to start anything serious, only to find out-- Not that I think you want something serious. I mean, I’m not sure if I’m ready for anything serious. I was just thinking... Oh god.”

“Merlin.”

“Yes? I’m sorry. What?”

“Have dinner with me. I want to see your face. And I want to kiss you.”

“Ar--”

“You said I was a fantastic kisser, so don’t back out on me now. My ego may not take it.”

Merlin laughs. “Your ego is indestructible, it seems.”

“So?”

“So…”

“Dinner?”

Merlin sighs. “Dinner. Just not tonight, all right? I really do need to study.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Yes, all right, tomorrow.”

 

 

**June 18th, 2013**

 

He can’t sleep again. There’s this incessant buzzing noise in his head, the start of a headache that never quite reaches the point of becoming a migraine, but annoying enough to slowly drive him off his rocker. His thoughts are being too persistent, too loud in his head, too.

Sleeping pills don’t help. He doubled the dose, making it four pills in the past twelve hours in hopes of shutting his brain off, but, if anything, it’s made him only more wired and restless. It’s never been like this before.

At three in the morning, he steps on the treadmill, hoping that the steady thundering rumble of the belt will be a strong enough external factor to replace the inner disturbances of his mind. By four, he’s sweaty, every muscle weeps with ache, and his knees are giving out. He’s too tired to take a shower, too worked up to go to bed, too achy to wank -- although, weirdly enough, he is horny. Or just lonely. Or a combination of the two, but it doesn’t matter. He’s too… something. Or more like -- _every thing_.  Around him. Inside him. Pulsing, pressing, undulating.

He itches all over; every inch of him is sensitive -- too sensitive to be able to stay in any position for long enough. Maybe he just needs a stiff drink. Three fingers, at least.

Maybe it’s the best idea he’s had this entire night; the noises and the tension are still there, but it’s not unbearable, it’s not making him want to stick his head in the oven.

Now he can sit down and look through Leon’s files once more. Because among all the distracting idle thoughts, one is the loudest: he’s missed something and he must find it. So he opens the folder again.

He wishes he could say by the end of the first hour of reading that his faith in humanity and business integrity has been restored. After all, there’s Gaius, who’s been Uther’s most loyal supporter and as close to a friend as they come for a man like Uther Pendragon. There’s Anhora, who, as Arthur finds, has been an animal rights activist since the ‘50s and has been an active opponent of animal testing. For the past five years, he’s been donating his entire salary to animal shelters. Granted, the old man isn't broke, but he’s a good soul, Arthur believes. Trustworthy.

There’s also Tristan. Uther liked to call him “Young Money”. Opened a start-up company at twenty-five, designed a software program by himself -- first on the healthcare market -- that offered medical advice and quick help online. It was basic, simple, but it was more than anything else available to the masses at the time and for free. Went IPO. Sold it to Pendragon PH ten years later, under the condition that the site remained and stayed free to public. Uther was so impressed with Tristan’s knowledge of web trends and passion for helping people, he offered him a position at PPH and invited him to be on the board, "to represent the voice of the generation". Arthur’s seen him presenting at conferences, speaking to students during his visits to schools. Tristan’s not driven by money-hunger; his main ambition is public education and support. And in a way, Arthur envies him, since this is what _he_ wants to do as well, yet he’s fighting in a completely different corner.

There’s plenty of opposition to keep Arthur busy, dressed in ties and Italian-designer suits, hiding brass knuckles in their fine-leather gloves, and currently beating him to a pulp. He can't afford to be doing what Tristan is doing.

And what about Agravaine? As it turns out, Uncle Rav has been awarding himself with the double-amount of stock, using the company's performance award programme. Nothing illegal, per se, and that’s why Leon’s failed to flag it. Arthur's uncle is a classic case of unadulterated greed and abuse of privilege...

Cenred. Oh, he knows Cenred. Knows him well enough to say the git wouldn’t spend a moment of his time interacting with someone unless it benefitted him directly. Sleeping with an enemy? Maybe it's no longer an enemy; maybe there’s more there, and Arthur’s failing to see to it...

It’s seven o’clock in the morning, and Arthur’s still up, reading, going through the emails saved on the flash drive, and reconciling the information provided by Leon. His head throbs, heavy, his eyes itching, but he can’t give up what he’s already started. There’s something there he’s missing. If Cenred's sleeping with the enemy, he _is_ the enemy. Then who does he represent?

Arthur pours himself another drink. It stings his gums, burns his throat, brings tears to his eyes. The letters in front of him thicken and blur together -- unreadable, incomprehensible -- and it irritates Arthur. He leaves the desk and goes to the kitchen, opens the freezer, and sticks his hand into the bin with ice. It feels good -- so bloody good, he hisses in pleasure. And fuck, he’s horny again. The need for release is so intense and urgent, he shoves his pyjama bottoms down and jerks himself off right here, with his left hand still buried in ice. The heat of pleasure builds up quickly. He bites his lips, nearly drawing blood, when a tide of orgasm sweeps over him, twists and jolts his body, choking the air out of him. It’s fierce, white-hot, and it turns him inside out -- a blindingly painful bliss and exactly what he needed.

He wipes his hand on his t-shirt and drags himself back to his desk.

First, another drink. Because he’s thirsty.

Now, more files to read. Because there’s still Odin.

Fucking creep and pervert Odin.

Arthur hates him with the passion of a thousand blistering suns.

Hates him for Uther, who was too busy to care and too worried to lose his main investor. Hates him for Morgana’s pale face and her unnaturally round eyes. She was only sixteen. Arthur saw what Uther refused to. He saw what Odin’s sick advances did to Morgana, how he hovered and wheedled, and just wouldn’t leave her alone. Even at barely fourteen, he understood what exactly Odin wanted from Morgana. Her youth, her hand, and a permanent spot in Uther’s empire. It was easy to accuse Morgana of lying, make her look like she had an overactive imagination and possibly even a little crush on Mr Wenham.

Uther was the one who’d held Morgana’s chin between his fingers and insisted, “Are you making this up to draw Mr Wenham’s attention, Morgana? Don’t be foolish. Leave the poor man alone.”

They found her in Paris a week later, holed up in a hotel and refusing to come back home.

How Morgana could live through that experience, still agree to join PPH, and now be in the same room with this sick man, is beyond Arthur’s understanding. He should’ve kicked his arse from here to Iceland as soon as he had the power to vote him off. Why didn’t he?

But Morgana said... What did she say? _She was going to finish Odin off on her own terms._ Did she not understand how dangerous that was? It’s not Morgana who should fight the battle with this scum. It’s Arthur. Morgana should no longer live in fear, and Arthur must no longer be a coward.

And just like that, it all becomes amazingly simple and all sorted out in his head -- black and white -- and Odin cannot be more in the black.

 

~*~

 

Arthur has no time to dress up. He locks the files and the flash drive in his safe, grabs the keys to his Panamera, and goes upstairs into the library, where he also keeps the entire armour collection passed on to him after Uther’s death.

Arthur’s phone rings, and he squints, winded after going up and down the stairs. His head’s pounding, nausea rolling in waves. He doesn’t recognize the number, and he’s fairly sure that whoever’s calling isn’t bearing any pleasant news. He’s done with the bad news. The ringing stops and resumes with renowned rigour.

“Fuckers!” Arthur growls. “What do you want?” And he smashes the phone against the wall.

It’s probably the best decision he can make, considering he’s being tracked. Of course he’s being tracked! Not anymore, tossers.

Feeling light and invincible, Arthur goes down to the garage.

 

~*~

 

Either Arthur’s gone through a time warp or his Panamera’s grown wings, he isn’t entirely sure, but it only takes him two seconds to arrive at his office building. He expects the parking lot to be empty, thinking it’s still very early and he’ll have to wait to issue justice, but when he glances at the digital clock on the dash of his car, it says 09:12. Whoa. Time really does fly.

Without his phone, he can’t check his schedule -- and he doesn’t need to. It’s Tuesday, the third week of the month, and it means there’s a monthly board meeting. His favourite. He guffaws to himself.

He really can’t wait to see their faces when he comes to the meeting, almost on time, for once.

Surprise, bitches. Your CEO is in the house.

Although there’s a crowd of people waiting for the lift, they kind of bow and scatter at his appearance, and he ends up being the only person in it. Whatever. He presses the button to the top level.

Gwen isn’t at her desk; Arthur doesn’t need her anyway, since his destination is the executive conference room down the hall. Arthur glides in that direction.

His entrance has the exact effect Arthur hoped for -- everyone jumps to their feet, gaping and talking at once.

“Arthur, what’s going?”

Morgana.

Yes, hello.

_Justisssss_ , he's reminded in his head, a hiss just like Morgana’s.

“Morgana, please leave, right now,” Arthur says calmly.

So calmly. He’s like a swan.

A swan? No.

A duck.

What?

“Arthur, did you lose the last of your mind? What on Earth--”

“Morgana, please go,” Arthur says again. Firmly. He turns to Gaius and nods. “You too, please.”

Walking up to Tristan, he offers him the hand that’s empty. “Good job at the HealthTech conference last week, Tristan.”

Tristan smiles, then frowns when he glances down at the offered hand that throbs for some reason, and clasps Arthur’s elbow instead. “Arthur. Pleasure to see you so…” He tilts his head to Arthur's other hand. “...prepared for today’s agenda.”

Arthur grins. “Definitely prepared today. It will be a short meeting. You don’t need to stick around.”

“Oh no, I’d rather stay,” Tristan assures him and stands just a little bit closer. “Wouldn’t miss your _presentation_ for the world.” And he winks.

Gaius whispers something to Morgana, who nods, and to Arthur’s relief, she slips out of the room. That’s like a signal for him to start, and he swears he can hear fanfare blaring somewhere in the distance in the anticipation of this moment.

Arthur walks to the head of the room, turns to face his audience, and, placing his hand on the table, announces, “After much consideration, I regret to inform you… Okay, not really, I regret fucking nothing. Allow me to start over, gentlemen.”

He means to be snarky, but he's very dizzy, and his hand _really_ throbs.  His head, too. He could use some ice right now to apply directly to his brain, which is too big for his skull. Arthur licks his lips and swallows, but his tongue is like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth.

“Arthur, are you planning to explain yourself, or you've completely lost your mind?” That’s Odin.

_Odin._

That fucking pervert and creep dares to speak to him.

Arthur takes a step forwards and everyone jumps back, murmurs and gasps filling the room. Arthur winces; why is it so bright here? What is this place?

Ah, yes.

Arthur swings his hand, eliciting more gasps. He points his hand, which seems way too long and heavy for some reason, at Odin.

“Restructure,” he announces. “You. And you.” He turns to Cenred. Then tries to find another face in the room. Sees Agravaine. Or at least someone who looks like shitting-bricks Agravaine. “And you. Restructured. Done.”

“Arthur, you’re clearly not in your right mind right now,” Agravaine, or someone who sounds like his uncle on helium, says.

Arthur can’t tell, exhaustion catching up with him, clearly -- and at the least appropriate moment. That pisses Arthur off.

“I've never been more…” Arthur can’t think of a word. “More... Bollocks… What are you all staring at?” he yells. “You can all go home! Go!”

“Arthur--”

“N-n-no.”  The nausea striking him is so violent, he sags to his knees and gasps for air, trying, trying his best to keep his grip on reality -- and failing. Failing miserably. 

 

 

**June 21st, 2013**

 

“My tests, what have you there, Doc?”

“First, I’d like to reaffirm an important aspect of our relationship, Arthur.”

“We have a relationship now? No offence, but I don’t fancy you in that way."

“No offence taken. I’m your doctor, you’re my patient. We have a doctor-patient relationship.”

“Duly noted.”

“I’d like to remind you that you were admitted here for a reason.”

“Right. The board couldn’t wait to get rid of me. My sister went along with it. And my former physician, who’s supposed to be a family friend, didn't stop them. Now everyone’s playing a victim, don’t they? I’m sure Morgana’s already found a way to PR the hell out of this. People are suckers for heartwrenching stories. If anything, the business will grow.”

“I had a chance to speak with both Morgana and Gaius. There’s nothing but a sincere concern there. They love you and care about you.”

“They _put_ me here. I don’t need that kind of love.”

“I know you disagree, but they did the right thing.”

“Whatever, Doc.”

“Arthur, I need to remind you again that these conversations are confidential; I’m here to help you, not get you in trouble."

“I don’t think I like where this is going.”

“Nowhere pleasant, I'm afraid... You lied to me, Arthur. And by lying, you nearly thwarted the efforts to diagnose you correctly.”

“Oh, hardy-har-har. Your efforts. I’m not mental -- there’s your diagnosis. Can I go home now?”

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth about taking drugs? It’s a crucial piece of information.”

“I told you, I’m not taking any drugs.”

“We found traces of psilocybin in your system. Do you know what it is? It’s known among common folks as magic mushr--”

“I know what psilocybin is. Nope. Never taken any of that shite. You’re on the wrong track.”

“Tests don’t lie. People do.”

“That’s bollocks. I’m in hospital, for fuck’s sake. I’ve donated enough blood to revive a small army. I gave you a urine sample, a hair sample, you name it… I crapped a pound into a bloody cap for you. Why would I lie about something so obvious?”

“Maybe because you know well enough how psilocybin works, and how fast it leaves the system. You probably also know that a standard drug test wouldn’t detect it. I had to order more elaborate tests for it. We wasted resources, time. Do you like being here for this long?”

“Ha! This means you didn’t believe I was bloody mental, didn’t you? You knew there was some external cause!”

“You shouldn’t have lied to me, Arthur. That’s the worst thing you can do to yourself.”

“Doc, I’m telling you… Fuck…. No, hold on a minute…”

“Breathe, Arthur. Look at me. I’m here for you. You are safe. Breathe.”

“I’m not panicking, dammit. I’m angry, okay? Jesus, just give me a moment.”

“Of course. Let’s get you some water... All right… Better? Can we talk some more? I need you to work through what you’re feeling right now.”

“All this fucking time, you wanted me to believe I was nuts…”

“I have been searching for answers, and you weren’t helping. Taking psychedelic drugs does affect your brain. Sometimes in the most devastating ways. Thankfully, psilocybin is not addictive. But we need to figure out why you felt the need to escape reality.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, here we go again… All I’ve been taking lately is a sleeping aid, home remedy stuff. That's it!”

"So, the dizziness, nausea..."

"I told you -- happens whenever I stress, it's nothing new."

"Mood swings, paranoia, blacking out..."

"That sodding magician did something to me. It started then."

"Arthur, think. You're an intelligent man. You're blaming a guy with circus tricks for causing your mental breakdown."

"It wasn't _that_ bad. The reports are exaggerated."

"You hurt yourself. You’ve threatened others. I’ve a picture of you taken by the security cam at Pendragon PH that morning. Do you want to see it?”

“So I had a bad hair day. Boo-bloody-hoo.”

“You’ve possibly created a person in your head -- an imaginary lover."

"No, shut up. Merlin is real."

“What’s the name of that sleeping aid? Where did you buy it?”

“I didn’t buy it, Morg...”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. Nevermind. I don’t remember how it was called. Something stupid, like ‘Sleep Better’ or whatever…”

“I see. Do you have any left? I can send someone to your house to obtain a sample.”

“No. I’m out already.”

"Arthur, was that an experimental drug your company is working on? You’ve taken something not clinically tested yet? Is that why you've been hiding the truth?"

"No! Leave my company out of it! What happened to me is on me alone."

“I see.”

“You see nothing. All right, Doc… Here's the whole truth... I was feeling miserable after my father’s death. I was lonely, couldn’t handle the big responsibilities. All that. So, I dipped a little. Got some magic in me.”

“You took a psychedelic drug to get high.”

“Right.”

“When did you start?”

“Um... Say, about a month ago.”

“How often?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter? I won’t do it again.”

“Because all your problems went away?”

“No-- Yes. I was being stupid. I understand it now, all right? No more. See, everything’s explained. No addiction, no problem. Case closed.”

“Sure, Arthur. And what about your boyfriend Merlin? Should we close that case and leave it behind as well?”

“No, why would you say that?”

“I believe your state of mind was altered for a certain period of time. I see here you mentioned that you met Merlin about a month ago as well.”

“So?”

“Arthur, think. Is it a coincidence?”

“Absolutely. Merlin’s real, and I’ll prove it to you. When can I leave?”

“I’d like you to be observed over the weekend.”

“Argh, Doc, no! I'm fine. Let me go home already.”

“You’ll be released on Monday, Arthur.”

“I’ve followed all your orders. I did everything you asked. I’m not confused anymore. You bloody promised!”

“I need to make sure. And I’m afraid Monday won’t be the last you see of me.”

“Why?”

“I’d like us to continue our sessions. Say, once a week.”

“Here? There’s no way I’m coming back here again.”

“No, Arthur, I have a practice in the city. We’ll meet there.”

“What happens if I refuse?”

"You can't. Your sister struck a deal to keep you out of jail. Therapy is a part of the court order."

"A court order..."

"You attacked innocent people, remember?"

"Innocent? Doc, you have no idea."

“No, I don't, so we still have a lot to figure out. Don’t you want to get to the bottom of it?”

“It shouldn’t be hard. As soon as I have my mobile back I’m calling Merlin... Oh, bollocks. He’s probably worried by now. Definitely worried. Bugger. This ‘no contact’ rule sucks. Doc, please let me call Merlin today.”

“I’m sorry. Rules are the rules. It’s for the best.”

“Yeah, yeah. Everyone knows what’s best for me, except me.”

“And isn’t it something for you to think about? I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Have a good evening.”

 

 

**June 24th, 2013**

 

“Am I getting a clean bill of health today?”

“Relatively clean.”

“Clean enough to let me back into the wild?”

“You tell me, how are you feeling? Are you ready to go home?”

“Not going to lie, I found a new appreciation in the dullness of a daily routine, and the porridge here is to die for -- compliments to the chef, and all that -- but I think it's time for me to go.”

“I’m glad you didn’t find your stay entirely unpleasant.”

“Oh no, Doc -- it’s been a lovely, lovely experience, brilliant. Let’s never do this again. But for what it’s worth, you’ve brightened my days here. Bedlam is lucky to have you.”

“Thank you, Arthur. Now, here's the change of clothes for you, and in this bag, are your clothes from the day of admittance. Your pickup has already been arranged.”

“I was in pyjamas?”

“That need washing."

"Splendid. I won't even ask. Where's my mobile?”

“You didn't have it on you. Maybe because your outfit didn't allow it?"

"Ha-ha, bloody ha, Doc. I need to make a phone call."

"Who are you planning to call?"

"Am I officially discharged?”

“I have officially released you, yes.”

“Then, Doc, I’m not sorry to say, it’s not your concern who I’m planning on calling.”

“Fair enough. Good luck, Arthur, take care of yourself. Your follow-up with me has already been scheduled for the end of this week. You’ll find the address of my office, the date, and time in the discharge papers. Stay well and I’ll see you soon.”

 

~*~

 

To Arthur’s surprise, Leon’s the one waiting for him outside the entrance of the hospital. He nods in greeting when Arthur gets into the car.

That Leon doesn’t immediately start asking any invasive questions and doesn’t treat him like nincompoop speaks volumes about Leon’s character. Arthur should be this lucky with the rest of the people he's about to face.

“Home?” Leon asks, turning on the engine.

"The office."

Leon's hand twitches on the wheel, and Arthur notices the hesitation, of course.

"I’m not allowed in there now, am I?"

"I'm sorry, Arthur."

“Are you supposed to be the bearer of bad news or something?”

“Actually, Odin has been dying to throw you out of the building publicly.”

“Well, thank you for helping me to save face.”

“You’re going to need it.”

“We knew it was a possibility,” Arthur says after a pause. It’s surprising how much Arthur isn’t surprised. He’d probably be disappointed in some way if it didn’t happen. It's nice to deal with people who mean business -- and it’s also predictable. Predictable is good.

“Home, then?” Leon asks.

“Guess so.”

Leon leaves him alone as he starts navigating through the crawl of London traffic.

Arthur considers borrowing his mobile, and gives up on the idea. Morgana didn’t pick up when he tried to call her in the hospital, and as his shitty luck has it, he doesn’t remember Merlin’s number. Never knew it, actually -- and can thank his laziness for that -- everything important in his life is on a speed-dial.

Unexplainable dread pools in his stomach. Is that really the reason? What if Morgana and the Doc were right?

He breaks out in sweat all over and presses his forehead to the cold glass of the window, the raindrops spluttering into it heavily, although the rain is not the blame for his blurry vision. He breathes deeply to calm himself. How could he be so confused about this? He couldn’t make up a person. No matter how delusional he might have been at the time, he couldn’t have spent a month so tweaked out, he actually created an entire relationship in his head. It’s not possible.

He turns to Leon. “I changed my mind. Take me to Morgana’s country house, please.”

“But Morgana’s in the office.”

“Yes, exactly.”

 Leon’s head jerks in Arthur’s direction.

“Watch the road, Leon,” Arthur says in a tone not allowing any objections. 

Leon changes lanes without another comment, and Arthur pretends to ignore the occasional sharp glances at him in the rear-view mirror for the rest of the trip.

“Open it,” he demands at the front door.

“Arthur--”

“Open the door, Leon. I’ll deal with it.”

Leon uses his spare key to unlock it. The security system goes off. Leon punches the code in, but nothing happens.

"The code has been changed," Leon says. "I don't know the new one."

"Call Morgana, tell her I'm here."

“You’ll get arrested. Arthur, this is not a good idea.”

“Leon, please, call Morgana now. And then go.”

“What if she doesn’t call the security firm off? What if she doesn’t come?”

Arthur smiles. “Then I’ll spend the night in the bin. Will you bail me out?”

“Fuck, Arthur,” Leon yells through the blaring alarm. “Are you on a mission to sabotage yourself?”

“It could go both ways, I agree. But if I know Morgana, she’ll be here soon. Go now. I'll call a taxi if I'm not offered any other transportation first.”

Arthur walks through the still, silent house into the garden, and straight to the spot where he watched the fireworks a month ago. He spends some time stalking around the area, shuffling his feet and occasionally scuffing the ground with his toe. The rain just stopped, so his shoes and the hems of his trousers get soaked quickly.

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for exactly -- some sign, maybe? That he isn’t entirely gone off his rocker and hopeless?

Something catches his eye a few feet away, glistening wetly on the grass, and Arthur picks it up. It’s a white cable tie. Anyone could have dropped it, although Arthur knows how this particular one got here, and this should be an assurance enough. Except, it’s not enough. This clear piece of plastic maybe proof that Merlin exists, but what it can’t do is prove that what Merlin and Arthur had together was real, what happened between them wasn’t simply conjured up by his tripped-out mind.

The alarm finally stops screaming, and nothing else happens. No one comes after him.

It starts raining again, and Arthur walks back into the house. There’s something else he wants to do before he faces Morgana. He makes it to the second storey of the house.

The brown bag inside the nightstand in Morgana’s bedroom is still there, untouched. He looks inside -- all three bottles still in place. Still full of pills, judging by the rattle when he shakes it. He shoves the bag into the pocket of his jacket and goes back downstairs.

He sits down on the sofa, the cable tie is still in his hand, and he starts twisting it between his fingers again and again, thinking, thinking, thinking…

“I should’ve had you arrested.” Morgana’s voice pulls him back to reality. “That would be the natural next step in your spectacular life, don’t you think?”

Arthur tsks. “That’s what you think of me, sister?”

“That’s what everyone thinks of you.” She walks into the room. “Why are you here?”

“I hear I’m not welcome at PPH anymore. How else would I have your attention?”

“Oh, you’ve had enough of my attention, brother. Entirely too much, if you ask me, and you like it that way, don’t you? You can’t survive without drama.”

“So, I guess there won’t be a welcome-back hug?”

“You broke into my house, Arthur. That hardly warrants hugs.”

“You wouldn’t take my calls.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“You aren’t interested to know how I’m doing? After my, you know, _absence_.”

“I know everything I need already.”

Arthur leans forward. “Go on.”

Morgana shrugs and walks to the fireplace to fix the clock on the mantel. “You had everything. Everything. Even after Uther’s death, you were granted more than you deserved. Still, you had no appreciation for it. I warned you. I offered help. I tried. And now I’m tired.” She turns to him. “I am not sorry. You are exactly where you should be. It’s time for you to wake up and get help. I hope you are.”

“Right. Are you sure you had nothing to do with any of this? It wasn’t your plan all along to get me locked up in Bedlam?”

“It was actually Gaius’s suggestion. I agreed with his medical opinion.”

Arthur studies Morgana’s face. Her earnest expression. She isn’t lying. She can’t be lying, simply because she has no idea Arthur took something from her bedroom and has been using it. And for some reason it hurts him even more.

“Morgana, you’ve watched me fall apart for the past month.”

She sits down on the opposite side of the sofa. “Don’t place the blame on me, Arthur,” she says in a tired voice. “Did I suspect something was wrong? Yes. When I started to worry it wasn’t just your insomnia bothering you, I wanted you to see someone. I asked Gaius… Everyone thought it was just a phase, what was I supposed to do if you..?.” Morgana stares down at her hands. “Look, I won’t defend myself here. I won’t. You are a grown-up. You’re responsible for your health and your choices, not me.”

“But they just played right into your hand -- my bad choices -- didn’t they? You’re _happy_ they did, yeah? I was in your way.”

Morgana faces Arthur and doesn’t lower her eyes. “Uther had faith in you, and look what you’ve done with his life’s work. I knew he was wrong. He should’ve left the company to me, but what did I have instead? Family jewels.” Her lips curl in a grimace. “I’m a _girl_. Why would I want anything else?”

“Morg--”

“No, Arthur. This is not how I wanted it. If you think I enjoy being in a shark tank without a single person to trust there or lean on, you are very mistaken. There was a time I was hoping you and I would be a team. We Pendragons -- a legacy.”

Morgana’s cheeks are flushed pink, her round green eyes blazing bright, and Arthur can’t miss the hurt, the longing and regret in her voice. She was right -- after all these years, growing up together, living practically on each other’s heads, working together, he really doesn’t know his sister very well. This side of her -- the big, passionate, and genuine side -- he failed to recognise and appreciate.

He smooths the hair on the back of his head and glances at her. “Maybe it’s not too late.”

Morgana’s slates her mouth into a firm line for a moment, considering him. “It’s not an Etch-A-Sketch,” she says finally. “And you can’t yell ‘pass’ whenever you don’t like the cards you’ve been dealt.”

“What now, then?” Arthur asks, dropping his hand.

“You lost touch with reality, and your job now is to figure out how to make you better. I can’t do that for you.”

“I know you want me to think I’m crazy--”

Morgana laughs. “See, that’s your problem.”

“What is?”

“You don’t take responsibility for anything you do. Never did. How are you going to learn, if you don’t admit your own issues?”

“Don’t try to act like you’re perfect.”

Morgana shakes her head. “I’m not the one who’s sitting here pointing fingers. All I ever wanted was to be an equal part of the family. Our family. Now I am, and I will carry my name with pride. See if you can do the same.”

Even though the air in the room is a comfortable temperature, Arthur’s shaking. He can’t come up with another word, crushed and lost. Everything’s lost.

Morgana gets to her feet.

“Go home, Arthur. Leon’s waiting outside. Get better. You will see me around.”

“What about Merlin?” Arthur asks when Morgana’s already at the door and waiting for him to follow her outside.

Morgana sighs. “I hope you work this out with some help. It’s gone too far.”

“Work out what?”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Arthur.”

“Sure. You’re just going to insist you don’t know Merlin. That I invented him. Even though you met him.”

“I’ve never met anyone named Merlin in my life.”

“Liar. Why are you doing this? You talked to him right in front of me. I met him because of you.”

Morgana crosses her arms on her chest with a mixed expression of pity and amusement. “And when was that?”

“At your party. The charity ball, remember?”

“When you were _hypnotised?_ ” she asks, mockingly. “When you pretended to be an airplane? Was this Merlin your _pilot_?”

“I wasn’t an airplane!” Arthur flushes. He must have looked ridiculous during that session. “Merlin wasn’t an _illusion_. He was the pyrotech guy. You hired him.”

“No, the guy’s name was Cedric. Cedric was the one I hired, and he came with solid recommendations.”

“His name was _Mer_ lin. And while you were busy collecting cheques and getting piss-drunk -- by the way, what was all that about? -- I got to know Merlin. We dated, for fuck’s sake.”

“And where’s your Merlin now?”

Arthur gasps a little, trying to come up with a response. “It’s not important.”

Morgana sighs again and takes out her phone. “Look, I think I still have Cedric’s number somewhere. Call him, talk to him. You’ll see that I’m right. I think you need to do this for yourself. Consider it your first step to recovery.”

“As if you know anything about that.”

“No, I don’t.” She shrugs. “Doesn’t mean you don’t need to clean up. As your official guardian, I care about that.”

Arthur sputters. “My what?”

“Would you prefer uncle Rav sorting out your affairs?”

"Morgana, what?"

"It was between having that or having you stay at the facility. Do you want to go back?"

“I’m not incompetent!”

“Last time I saw you, you didn’t act like a sensible person -- quite the opposite, actually. And although Gaius thought it would do you some good to stay put in hospital for longer, I petitioned for your release. Remember that, Arthur. I don’t plan on babysitting you, and I don’t have any desire to stick my neck out for you, either. If you want to be on your own again, see a therapist like you’ve been instructed, stick with his plan, and stop acting like someone’s out to get you.”

Out of all outcomes, this is possibly the least expected one -- and most unpleasant.

It must be written all over his face.

She narrows her eyes to slits. “What, Arthur, say it.”

He huffs. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“It’s not unpleasant. A little humility will serve you right, little brother.”

Arthur grimaces, although somewhere very deep, a little voice in his head tells him Morgana might not be entirely wrong.

 

~*~

 

He’s only been away for a week, but London seems to have turned greyer, glummer and damper, and so has his flat. It’s summer, but there’s been hardly any sunlight, and the cleaning lady’s left a window open in his bedroom. The curtains are wet and so is the floor under the window. Cursing softly, Arthur shuts it and goes to the linen closet.

“I’ll take care of it,” Leon offers, standing by the door.

Arthur looks around, goes back to the living room, then the kitchen. Leon trails behind him.

“What are you looking for?”

“My bloody mobile! I don’t see it. Did I forget it in my car?”

Leon disappears for a minute and comes back with a clear plastic bag. Arthur doesn’t need to ask, because he isn’t stupid and recognises what’s inside the bag right away.

“What happened to it?”

“Made out with the wall? You may know better.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I-- Fuck. Where did you find it?”

“In the library.”

“What were you doing in the library?”

Leon shifts uncomfortably and then looks at Arthur. “Morgana sent me here last week after you were admitted.”

“What the fuck for? She had no right!”

“Calm down, Arthur. She wanted to make sure you don’t have anything illegal here, in case the court orders a search.”

“Why would a court order a search?”

“Because Odin tried to arrange one.”

“I’m going to bury that piece of shit!” Some random images flash in his mind. Morgana’s face on the pictures, Odin’s name on the screen. God, what had he done that night? “I don’t keep  anything illegal here, Leon. I’m not on drugs.”

“I know.”

“Do you, now,” Arthur deadpans.

“I’m sorry.”

Arthur sits down on the chair and buries his hand into his hair. “I don’t remember any of the phone numbers except for Morgana’s.”

“I’m sure you have it all backed up.”

“Not for a long time.” Not with everything going with him in the past six months.

“What do you need, how can I help?” Leon asks.

Arthur doesn’t know yet. He’s just… so fucking lost.

“I need a shower,” Arthur mutters. “Help yourself in the kitchen or order a takeaway.”

“Preferences?” Leon asks.

Arthur shrugs. Anything is good after hospital food.

The greatest thing about the bathrooms in Arthur’s house is the underfloor heating -- the luxury he’s never given a second thought until now. He turns on the water in the shower, strips his clothes off, and sits on the loo barefoot, waiting for the water to warm up. He closes his eyes, trying to chase some elusive thought while listening for the water hitting the glass door next to him, but he’s too tired already and too emotionally drained. It’s weird how surreal the thick, fluffy towel feels in his clenching fingers, how confining this room seems -- although it’s the size of a small soccer field and has every amenity possible, including a telly and a surround-sound system -- compared to his incredibly sparse and unassuming accommodations at the hospital.

He doesn’t feel like watching the news or listening to the music. There’s no joy in heated floors. His feet refuse to warm up, his shoulders hurt with tension, and the numbness in his chest makes it difficult to breathe. He isn’t safe here anymore. He isn’t comfortable. And he has never felt more lonely and destitute than he is now in his own house.   

The first somewhat solid thought in his mind is to self-medicate. Take a little green pill, have a quick trip into the neverland. He chases the tempting thought away with a hiss through his teeth.

He doesn’t allow himself to indulge in the long shower. He can’t wank with Leon practically outside the door; he doesn’t want to, either. It will mean thinking about Merlin, imagining touching Merlin, imagining Merlin touching him, and the idea seems wrong. As if it would mean he’s resigning his memories of Merlin to just being another part of his hallucinations. There’s also a particularly negative underlying thread through those memories, which he can’t place, but it sullies his already sour mood.

Leon is in the living room, sitting in front of the coffee table laden with the takeaway boxes and watching a replay of a recent Arsenal match. He glances at Arthur and concentrates back on the screen, shoving large pieces of chicken into his mouth.

“Gonna stay over?” Arthur asks after a while, just for planning purposes.

Leon shrugs noncommittally. “Probably...”

 

~*~

 

“Arthur...”

They’re done eating and sit, lazily watching Bond jumping from one roof to another.

“What?” Arthur sees Leon’s careful expression and knows not to expect anything good.

“Did Morgana tell you your accounts have been frozen as well?”

Arthur sits up straight. “What?”

“Morgana seized full control of all your business-related assets.”

Arthur clenches his teeth.

“She had a nasty argument with Agravaine, too. Threatened to fire his arse if he tries to touch any of it.”

“She can’t do that,” Arthur says tiredly. How much more bad news he can take? “She can’t fire him.”

“She can make it hurt for him if he keeps insisting.”

“She’d hurt herself and the company, and she won’t do that. Agravaine must know that.”

Leon keeps quiet for a moment. “I don’t think she’s out to hurt _you_ , though. I think she’s trying to protect you.”

Arthur snaps his head to Leon. “Are you defending her?”

Leon looks away.

“What are you really doing here, Leon? Observe and report?”

Hurt flashes in Leon’s eyes. “I’m here as a friend. I was just saying… Arthur, please, tell me what to do. How can I help?”

Arthur closes his eyes. He wishes he knew. He shakes his head.

“You haven’t lost yet,” Leon says. “We have the information, we can play their game. You can’t give up. It’s your company, remember?”

Arthur’s fingers curl into a fist and he starts bouncing his knuckles against the side of the sofa. Broken snatches of the memories of him -- distraught and sick -- from that blasted night last week attack his brain. He can probably make an effort and piece some of them together into something more or less coherent, but it feels like such a dark place to go to and remember it all, that he pushes them away. Not yet. Maybe never.

“I don’t know if I want that anymore.” He sighs. “And even if I get it back--”

“ _When_ you get it back,” Leon corrects him.

Arthur eyes him with a grateful smile and then turns serious. “Leon, I don’t need you to pussyfoot around me. I appreciate your support, but I was very fucked up, and we can’t go back to the way things were before.”

Leon nods solemnly.

“I guess I’ll be eating this shite for a while… It’s hell, mate,” Arthur admits. “I’m glad you’re here. And there’s also another matter,” he adds quietly.

Leon’s expression hardens. “Arthur…”

“I know what Morgana says. She thinks I’m half-mental and have made up a relationship. Neither is true and I’ll prove it.”

Leon mutters something under his breath, and Arthur pretends he doesn’t hear the doubt in the words, “Good luck, mate.”

 

~*~

 

Arthur checks his mobile’s voicemail from the landline, dialing with slightly shaking fingers, feeling his heart high in his throat.

His voicemail box is full, littered with rubbish from chatty, nosy people, including someone from the _Daily Mail_ \-- God knows how those bloody vultures found this number -- and he immediately presses ‘delete’ to the request for an exclusive. He gets rid of them all, pressing the same button after listening to only the first few words of each message. When he reaches the end of it, the polite voice tells him he has no more new messages and asks if he wants to listen to them again. No, he doesn’t, because not a single one is from Merlin. 

 

~*~

 

Arthur doesn’t want to run, and he isn’t hungry in the morning. The living room stinks from the food left in the boxes the previous night; Arthur takes a rubbish bag and swipes everything off the table into it. The pungent smell nearly makes him gag. He makes himself some tea, which goes cold because he forgets about it, staring into the window for too long.

He goes back to bed.

 

~*~

 

Morgana calls in the afternoon. Gwen leaves two messages. Someone buzzes at the front door, then knocks. Arthur rolls onto his other side and drifts back to sleep.

 

 

**June 29th, 2013**

 

“Arthur, what the hell?” Gwen’s voice is way too close.

Arthur raises his head. “How did you get here?” His own voice is rough, unused for days.

“Leon gave me the key.”

He sits up in bed and yawns, scratching his beard.

Gwen wrinkles her nose. “You’re disgusting.”

“Eh.”

He pushes himself up to his sluggish feet and drags himself to the bathroom. He’s starkers and doesn’t care.

“Don’t ‘eh’ me.” Gwen goes into the closet, and Arthur hears the shuffling of the drawers there.

He locks himself in the loo.

Gwen throws clothes into his face as soon as he opens the door -- he did take a while there on purpose. Gwen’s having none of it. With her arms crossed on her chest, she watches him dress. Arthur takes his sweet time again.

“Don’t make me kick your arse. Believe me, I’d do so with pleasure,” Gwen promises.

“Why are you here? Why aren’t you at work?”

“It’s Saturday, you git. And I don’t have a job anymore.”

Arthur stops pulling his jumper on. “What? Morgana fired you? Fucking hell, Gwen, I--”

“I quit.”

“Oh, well. I’m still sorry. If you need a letter of recommendation or something…”

Gwen tilts her head looking at him in sheer amusement.

“All right, maybe not from me.” Arthur rubs his face. “Bollocks.”

“Don’t worry. I have a great stock portfolio to last me awhile. Until you clean up your act.”

“Gwen, surely you don’t want _me_ as your boss again.”

“As my boss, no. But I did you a huge favour. I saved all your work and took it with me. So, you’re going to pull your sorry behind together--”

“Gwen, you shouldn’t have--”

“-- _sorry behind_ together and you’ll write a business plan. You’re going to start your own thing, and I’m going to help you. Have I mentioned my extensive stock portfolio? You just found yourself a business partner.”

It takes a stern look and a jab in the ribs to stop Arthur from pulling her into a hug.

“You don’t deserve me. Don’t you forget it.”

Arthur smiles for the first time in days. It’s tentative and far too fleeting, but it’s like a hand that’s been squeezing his heart since forever has finally let off a bit, and it’s easier to breathe.

“I’m certain you won’t let me.”

Gwen smiles softly and pushes him in the chest a little. “Kitchen. Food. Your therapy session is in one hour.”

“Gwen--”

Gwen twirls around. “Did you say something?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you just call me ‘sir’?”

“Uh, you’re kind of scary right now.”

“Insufferable.” Gwen scuffs the back of his head. “Will you ever change?”

 

~*~

 

“Hello, Doc. Nice office.”

“Hello, Arthur. Thank you. How have you been?”

“All right, I guess.”

“How have you been adjusting since you came home?”

“Considering that I have no job, my sister -- who’s barely two years older than me -- controls every aspect of my life now, and everyone thinks I’m a fuck-up, I think I’m adjusting grr-reat!”

“Sounds like you’re throwing a pity party for yourself.”

“And I can’t find Merlin.”

“Ah. He hasn’t contacted you since you’ve been back and better?”

“I know what you think. You’re wrong.”

“Did you speak with Morgana?”

“Yeah.”

“What did she tell you? Does she remember Merlin?”

“No. But it doesn’t matter; I don’t believe her. She’s hiding something.”

“Arthur--”

“I think I scared him at times.”

“Who?”

“Merlin.”

“Ah. All right. Scared how?”

“How much I liked him. How much I wanted him to like me. I wanted to please him, all the time, but I don’t think it always translated the way I intended. He probably thought I was nutters half the time.”

“And to your recollection, had he showed any signs of apprehension?”

“He asked me if I was all right once; it was a weird conversation. I’m not even sure what he meant. And sometimes he watched me, looked at me kind of strangely, you know? Am I being paranoid?”

“I can’t answer that. I haven’t seen you together.”

“Right. It appears no one has… Do you think the drug confused me and I let myself believe there was more than there really was?”

“I don’t know, Arthur. I want to help you to work it out. But the steps will have to be small. You have to be mindful and careful.”

“Afraid I’ll lose it completely and start stalking the guy? I would never do that.”

“We still haven’t worked out the most fundamental question.”

“Well fuck, Doc, don’t kill me with the suspense here.”

“I think you know what I’m going to say.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Arthur, do you really want to waste more time playing games with me?”

“Fine… Fine… Yes, I think I know.”

“Go on.”

“You’re still not sure if I didn’t make Merlin up.”

“Are you sure you didn't? You know the effects of the drug on your mind. There’s a reason it’s called psychedelic.”

“No, no. Not possible. Now, _you_ think. Would I keep  hallucinating the same person, so clearly, over and over? Do things with him, learn things from him I’ve never heard of in my life before, if I were just tripping? Where would it all come from?”

“Every person’s different. Their reactions are different. With psilocybin, your senses heighten, your mind becomes sharper. Some report tremendous spikes of creativity, so anything is possible. Depending on the setting, it could be a very pleasant or a very negative, even frightening experience. The effects of the drug are very individual and unpredictable; that’s why it’s banned from use and is barely explored as a medical treatment.”

“I’m not a scientist or a doctor, so I can’t tell you about the healing potency of a drug, but I know a thing or two about why some substances remain medically unexplored, and the true reasons have a lot less to do with the potential benefits of the product than with how much it would cost to make it and how big the market is for it. We’re innovative, but at the end, it’s a game of numbers, Doc. Plain and simple. And dehumanized.”

“Your company is the leader in biotechnology. Your discoveries have been changing lives. You should be proud.”

“I’m not even allowed into the building anymore.”

“That’s unfortunate, Arthur, I’m sorry. But I don’t want you to worry about that right now. I want you to find a way to channel your energy into something positive.”

“Oh, here we go, motivational speeches.”

“I know it’s been hard for you, but your recovery should be your only focus right now.”

“What about Merlin?”

“Arthur, don’t let it consume your mind.”

“Doc, no, you don’t understand. He is _important_.”

“I understand your urge to figure out where the idea of Merlin comes from, whether he’s real. Hold on! Let me finish. I _understand,_ and I can’t stop you, but you have to promise me you will limit your efforts in looking for this person. Do something else instead. Go to the gym, meet with your friends,  find yourself a project to work on. And limit your search for answers about Merlin to an hour a day. That's it, Arthur. Promise me, and I'll see you again next week.”

“I--”

“I need your word, Arthur.”

“Yes, all right. I’ll try.”

“Try. And if you feel like you’re about to do something irrational or like you can’t control your feelings or thoughts, you will call me.”

“Yes, all right. I will.”

“I’ll see you in a week.”

 

 

**June 30th, 2013**

 

His new mobile is slick and shiny. Normally these things make him excited. This time, he buys exactly the same model and he keeps his old number. It gives him a certain sense of stability that he seems to have lost. It doesn’t take a lot of effort to obtain his mobile records and to deduce the number that’s most likely Merlin’s. The dates, the times and the obscene amount of texts speak in favor of that deduction.

His hands tremble slightly when he finally finds the courage to sit down and dial the number. He listens to the message and hangs up. Dials the number again. And again, having a hard time accepting the reality. Dials one more time, already knowing what he’ll hear: a strange bloke in a poncy voice will inform him that:

_Sorry, this number is no longer in service. Please check and try again._

It takes a serious amount of restraint for Arthur not to have the new mobile join the fate of his old one.

Disconnected number doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself. It doesn’t mean anything final and devastating. It doesn’t mean anything at all.

 

 

**July 1st, 2013**

 

Pyrotech Works is a small shop in Ealing near Gunnersbury park, and only about twenty minutes from Arthur’s house.

He parks his Panamera at the kerb, right in front of the shop. There’s no one behind the counter, and a large sign above it warns him that the fireworks are highly flammable. The framed picture on the wall shows a bloke with his mouth covered with another sign: “Branded a Fool” and something else in small letters. Arthur snorts. Well, that’s rather fitting.

He wipes his palm on his trousers and runs a hand over his hair, blowing the air out of his lungs, before ringing a bell on the counter. He hears someone shuffling behind the “Staff Only” door, and he sucks in a quick breath, suddenly unprepared to see Merlin.

He doesn’t have a speech. He has no idea how Merlin will react when he sees him. Maybe this is where his streak of luck is going to end, and he’ll finally end up in the coppers’ hands. Merlin hasn’t shown a big desire to see him again so far.

And that’s the thing -- Arthur wants to know why. Also, Arthur wants to know who the hell is Cedric?

The door opens and a bloke walks out. Mousy-looking, with a beard so thin, Arthur can see zits through it. He smiles politely. “How do you do, sir?”

_Not Merlin_.

Once recovered from a temporary loss of words, Arthur clears his throat. “Hello.”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“I’m Arthur Pendragon.”

A wrinkle of recognition creases the bloke’s forehead, but he continues to smile like anything. “Yes, hello. I’m Cedric, the shop owner. How can I help you?”

Arthur works it out in his head quickly. “My sister Morgana recommended you. Said you did a brilliant job for her party.”

“We aim to please.” Cedric walks around the counter and looks at him expectantly.

“I saw some of the footage,” Arthur continues. “I’d like to hire you.”

“Brilliant. When is your party?”

“Um… In a couple of months.”

Cedric smiles, nodding. “Depending on the size of your venue, we can offer several great options.”

He fumbles with the keys of his laptop, starts explaining something, pointing to the screen, but Arthur stops Cedric. “I’d like to speak with Merlin.”

Perplexity on Cedric’s face quickly turns into a forced smile. “Who?”

“The person who performed the show at Morgana’s. Merlin.”

“I don’t know any Merlin.”

Cedric tries to pull his hand from Arthur’s hold, but Arthur only digs his fingers into his skin more. “Yes, you do. Where is he?”

“Sir.” Cedric makes another attempt to free his hand, his face turning white. “Is there a problem?”

Arthur grabs him by the front of his shirt. “You tell me. I asked you a simple question. Where’s Merlin?”

Cedric’s lips barely move, sweat beading on his forehead. “I assure you, I don’t know who Merlin is.”

In his adult years, Arthur’s had a chance to meet a lot of people. Some sought him out to earn his business, and some because he had the most attractive traits: rich, fit, had brains. He learned to extract himself from a situation, ask the right questions, push where needed, pull where necessary, watch their reactions, and have the desirable result -- find their true motivations. Almost always, he was right. Very rarely, he wasn’t disappointed.

Cedric isn’t lying. He isn’t telling Arthur the entire truth, either, but he isn’t lying about Merlin. Arthur feels like the ground is falling beneath him. Is this really happening? Merlin is… he’s real.

Isn’t he?

Arthur lets Cedric go, blinking and breathing hard, making an enormous effort to rein himself in. He pushes his hair back, doing his best to hide the shaking of his hand.

“Let me make it clear, Cedric,” he says in his best I-mean-business voice. “It’ll take me one call to the commissioner of Health and Safety to have your shop inspected. Are you sure you won’t lose your licence once they’re done with you?”

“We work according to the code!” squeaks Cedric.

“So, if someone checks your shop in Wales right now...” Arthur pats his pocket for his mobile in demonstration.

“What do you want?” Cedric cries.

“Who did the job at Morgana Pendragon’s last month? Go ahead, check your books.”

Cedric starts typing something on his laptop with shaky fingers. “We were double-booked. And…”

“And?”

“It was a straightforward job... Was there any trouble?”

“You should’ve asked that first.”

“Blimey. Was there?”

“Who did you send to do the job?” Arthur almost growls, his patience fraying at the seams.

“Ms Pendragon gave us no notice but offered good pay -- I couldn't turn it down. Of course, I asked to double it. You understand, Mr Pendragon, it was a rush job. I had to bring a contractor and split the profit.”

Arthur leans forward for the laptop, but Cedric grips it like his life depends on it.

“Who did you split the profit with?”

“I found him through the forums on our website. There are a lot of fireworks enthusiasts out there who think that just because they can hold a match and light a sparkle, they know everything about this business. But this bloke was somewhat active before, asked the right questions, gave good advice sometimes.”

“What’s the name of the guy? Have you met him? Have you talked to him?”

“Not in person. I posted a job, a few people answered. He was one of them. He asked for the least pay. He asked for a small upfront fee for supplies, but said he had his own firing system. I wired him the money. And after the job was done and Ms Pendragon sent me the cheque with the payment, and I sent him the rest of his share.”

“So you have his name and contact information? His address. The bank account you wired it to?”

“Isn't it private information? Mr Pendragon, if Ms Pendragon wants her money back--”

“We don’t need your money. Tell me how to find your contractor.”

“I don’t know! I didn't even know his name, all right? He used to post under a username BlueDragon… Hold on.”

Cedric click around again, and shakes his head. “He deactivated his account.”

“How do you know?”

“I have admin access to the forums, they are hosted through my website.”

“Let me see.”

“No. I can’t, I’m sorry.”

Arthur knows when he’s pushed to the limit. “Fine. How did you talk?”

“I only ever exchanged words with him either through private messages on the forums or emails. That’s how I transferred him money.”

“What is his email address?”

“But Mr Pendr--”

“Cedric, don’t make it worse for yourself. You might get off easy with the inspection, but it takes little effort to spread the word about your ethics. You hire people from the street and pay them under the table. You rack up prices and don’t stand behind your service because you don’t know who _performs_ the service under your name. One unsatisfied, very vocal customer, and--”

“It was a one-time thing! I told you, we were double-booked, and Ms Pendragon wouldn't take no for an answer!”

Arthur huffs. “I believe that. His email, please.”

Two young guys walk into the shop, and Arthur growls, “Closed for a break. Come back later.”

They retreat faster than Cedric can protest, and Arthur turns to him with a satisfied smirk. “Very little effort, Cedric, see?”

“Here, here.” Cedric pushes a piece of paper towards him. “This has really been just one time--”

Ignoring the rest of the babbling, Arthur walks out. 

 

~*~

 

Arthur starts typing an email to [bluedragon_tech@gmail.com](mailto:bluedragon_tech@gmail.com) while he’s still in the car, and it appears to be more difficult than he thought.

He’s already figured Merlin doesn’t want to talk to him. Merlin himself has something to hide, and maybe Arthur came too close to finding out, or maybe he learned where Arthur has spent the last week and doesn’t want anything to do with a loon. So, under these circumstances, that makes him a stalker. An infatuated, obsessed nutter case. Like Mordred.

Except, Arthur didn’t invent Merlin’s interest in him, and all he needs to do is prove it.

He types a lengthy email -- a wordy, convoluted explanation about not feeling well, and having used some bad judgement lately, and…

He erases all of it and types a simple:

_Merlin,_

_Can we please talk?_

_Please call me._

_Arthur_

It’s difficult not to add “I miss you” at the end, because he really fucking does, but he presses “send” before the temptation becomes too strong.

The response he receives is almost immediate:

_Your message did not reach some or all of the intended recipients._

_The following recipient couldn’t be reached..._

Well, there goes that.

 

~*~

 

They meet in the late afternoon in the kebab joint on Westbourne Grove, not far away from Kensington Gardens Square. It’s nothing fancy, always busy, with authentic atmosphere, tasty dishes, and reasonable prices. It’s also Merlin’s favorite and a place they’ve shared hours of great time. And it’s not too far from Arthur’s house. Win-win.

He doesn’t think so now, as he watches Leon crossing the street and walking inside. Arthur waves for him to come over. Although it’s Monday, Leon offered to meet in the middle of the day and looks very casual in jeans, black turtleneck, and a grey cardigan.

Sitting down, he looks around and offers politely, “I’ve never been here before. Quite cosy.”

“Serves best Barg.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Lamb kebab, you should try it.”

“Since when are you the expert in Mediterranean cuisine, Arthur? This place is so not like you.”

“I--” Arthur drops his eyes to his hands.

“Hey, easy there, mate. I’m not judging.”

“Leon,” Arthur says, changes the topic abruptly. “What’s with the outfit? Did PPH change the dress code?”

Leon’s expression turns bored. “Do we have to talk about work?”

“I think we rather do. You’re my only steady channel with zero static, mate.”

“Well, not anymore, it seems.”

Arthur swears under his breath. “What now?”

Leon shrugs. “Restructure.”

“What?”

“You suggested it, I hear. Odin thought it was a good idea. Started with hiring a new security company.”

“He fired your entire team?” Arthur asks.

“The board let us go, with an attractive exit package.”

“And Morgana?”

“Morgana couldn’t say a word so she’s not perceived as biased. Everyone already thought I was Pendragons’ pet, she had to let me go. They don’t make her life easy as it is.”

“Fuck. Leon, I’m sorry. First Gwen, now you. This is all my fault.”

“Arthur, no, this is just a setback. But if we don’t do something, I’m afraid Morgana will be next.”

Arthur’s still angry with her, very angry with Morgana. He has a lot of questions -- questions so difficult, he feels messed up all over again when he starts thinking about them -- but that’s his problem to deal with, and Morgana is still family.

“How is she?” he asks, realising that with Leon’s losing his job, he’s lost all his resources to watch after her. What are they going to do now?

“Me and Percival will still shadow.”

“I appreciate it.”

Although it's extremely hazy in his head, he still remembers the majority of his argument with Morgana about Odin.

“She didn’t want us to do anything about him,” Arthur says. “She has her own plan. Do you know what it is?”

Leon shakes his head. “No.”

“All right.” Arthur sighs. “But she is the priority, Leon. The rest I don’t care about.”

“You care. And you will not sit here and watch while some toffs pilfer the company. It’s a mess, what happened to you, but listen, with you out, Morgana might be next and soon.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything.

“Arthur, I know you didn’t just go nutters. Something pushed you. I believe that.”

Yeah, something, and completely over his head. Arthur’s still unsure where to begin to unravel it.

“So would you believe me about Merlin?” he asks.

Leon takes a moment to sip his water. “I don’t know about him. I have no doubt the bloke exists, and I can see the impression he made on you. But this entire situation is so strange, and now he’s nowhere to be found. Something is not right about all this. I don’t trust him.”

Arthur studies his napkin as if it has the answer to the meaning of life.

“Arthur, think rationally. Think.”

Arthur looks up. “Funny. My therapist says the same. I have, Leon. I’m not supposed to be obsessing over this, and I’m trying. I am. But I’ve been thinking a lot, and… What happened to me was my doing... Merlin didn’t do anything to confuse me. He and I… We were good together.”

“So what do you want to do? Look for him?” Leon asks, and Arthur nods. “Well, without my usual crew and my badge, I’m just another bloke with advanced Google search. But I have some connections, of course, I know _how_ to look for someone. I’ll see what I can do.” He takes out his phone. “What can you tell me about the guy?”

Arthur rubs his face. A waiter -- who hasn’t dropped a single smile since Leon walked in -- places plates full of steaming meat and rice in front of them.

“M-m-m, smells delicious.” Leon smiles. “So, give me some pointers on the guy. I need to start somewhere.”

Arthur nips on his bread, fluffs his rice with the fork, spears a piece of Barg and inspects it like he isn’t sure if this is what he ordered. “His name is Merlin. Dark hair, tall, fit. He’s an aspiring pyrotech and a vegetarian. He loves working with his hands. Post-grad, I reckon, in something to do with chemistry and environment.”

Leon hums with his mouth full, while entering the information into his phone with his free hand. “What’s his surname?”

“I don’t know.”

Arthur shoots a glance at Leon, who raises an eyebrow at him.

“All right. Where does he live?” Leon asks.

Arthur fluffs some more rice on his plate. “I don’t have his address.”

Leon places his fork down. “Which uni does he go to?”

Arthur chances another glance at Leon. “I don’t know that, either.”

“Do you know his birthday, by any chance?”

“No, I don’t.”

“And you’re sure his real name is Merlin?”

Arthur doesn’t answer.

“Jesus, Arthur, please tell me you didn’t give this bloke pin numbers to your accounts or the keys to your place.”

“Merlin’s not--” Arthur starts hotly.

Merlin’s not what? A crook? A thief? An actor hired to get into his pants and steal company secrets? He reads all those questions in Leon’s not-amused expression.

“No,” he says quietly, “I didn’t give him any of that.”

“Thank fuck for small miracles. We’re _definitely_ finding him, Arthur. I promise you that.”

Arthur nods. “Okay. Just… Don’t do anything. Let me talk to him first.”

“Arthur, I’ll find him, see what this bloke is about, but--”

“Leon, I promise you, I won’t stalk him or anything. You don’t have to tell me how wrong that would be. I _know_. I just want one conversation. And if he doesn’t want to see me after that, I’ll respect that.”

Leon rubs his chin, studying Arthur.

“Yes, fine,” he finally concedes and takes another bite. “You’re right, the kebab is very good.”

 

 

**End of Part II**

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

**PART III**

  ****

 

**July 2nd, 2013**

 

He can’t stop thinking that no matter what Leon -- or anyone else -- believes, he knows a lot about Merlin.

He knows that Merlin loves Tarantino movies, popcorn with extra butter, caramel lattes, and his mum. He knows Merlin’s failed his driving test twice and when he finally passed it, he decided he can live his life without owning a car -- he has friends with cars anyway. If it were up to Arthur, he’d drive Merlin wherever and whenever he wants, so he doesn’t have to listen to friends like Will, who, if Arthur remembers correctly, believes Arthur is a posh wanker with some hidden agenda. What does that even mean?

Of course he can’t be mad at Will, because without even meeting the guy -- just by the fond quality of Merlin’s voice when he talks about Will -- he already knows that Will has Merlin’s best interest at heart. Arthur also knows that Merlin’s very loyal, but doesn’t rely on other people’s opinions to help form his own.

He knows Merlin had a fallout with his hometown church after he came out, and for someone who’s this open with people, it was a huge blow. He knows Merlin misses home.

He knows Merlin can carry a tune, is a terrible dancer, and he always smells like sulfur, burnt gunpowder and some kind of vanilla soap -- an impossible combination, but so _Merlin_. Arthur misses that smell.

Arthur knows that Merlin has a small birthmark on the back of his neck. The one Arthur loves to kiss and touch with his tongue, and Merlin always goes a little wild when he does.

Arthur knows that Merlin wouldn’t just abandon him, and he also knows that if Merlin’s made a decision not to be in Arthur’s life anymore, Arthur will respect that decision. He just wants to understand why and to hear that from Merlin himself.

Now that he’s out of the funk, it’s difficult for him to sit idly and do nothing while Leon -- whose hands are already tied -- is out doing the searching.

Googling “Merlin” is ridiculous in its fruitlessness, but he does it anyway, and the search brings up so many different, completely unrelated results, Arthur gives up shortly after.

His PPH email address isn’t working anymore, and it’s hard to explain, but Arthur’s had that email since he was sixteen, when he started working for his father as an intern. He doesn’t know how not to be attached to that part of his life, however difficult, frustrating, and unfulfilling it was.

At least all people important in his life know his personal account. Speaking of the devil, he thinks, staring at the email he’s just received from Morgana.

_Hello, brother._

_Gwen tells me she had to drag you out of bed on Saturday. I know for a fact you can’t afford her anymore. Also, she’s supposed to hate you. Why she’s putting up with you and for free, I have no idea. Tell her my offer for a position in my department still stands._

_What are you doing right now? Something stupid, I bet, like sitting at your desk and crying like a wee boy about your ruined life. Am I wrong, little brother? Well, life is tough, they tell me. What are you going to do about it?_

_I’m sure you already know about Leon. It’s unfortunate._

_Tell him if he doesn’t get off my back, I will never hire him again. And tell him I will never date a man who doesn’t respect my boundaries._

Arthur snorts at the not-so-subtle suggestion that Morgana’s resolved to restore the order at PPH her way. And how interesting about Leon. Looks like he’s over the entire Gwen business and has moved on to other things. Like Morgana. Leon’s always liked challenges; this might be the biggest one yet.

_Be a dear, don’t skip your therapy sessions. I really don’t enjoy holding your hand, and the paperwork I have to go through now as your guardian is horrendous. Not that you care._

_Since you don’t have an assistant anymore, I’m reminding you about our lunch on Sunday. Don’t be late like you always are everywhere._

_Morgana,_

_the boss of you_

Funny, but Arthur doesn’t feel bitter about Morgana being in charge of PPH anymore. Gaius likes to say, “Everything’s for the best,” and Arthur used to hate that phrase. That's such a placid way to look at life. He’s rethinking it now. Maybe it is for the best, maybe this is a sign. A good sign that he needs to get his arse into gear and _do_ something.

Maybe he will.

But first he needs to find some answers. And not just about Merlin.

 

 

**July 3rd, 2013**

 

He sells his Panamera.

It’s not an easy decision, and there might have been a tear or two when he has to leave it -- all red-gorgeous and so, so alone -- on the parking lot of the dealership. He buys a used, much more practical Range Rover, especially pleased with the size of the trunk, which can fit a lot of boxes and other things. Not things related to fireworks. Just… whatever things; he can fit them in there, and this is a perfect car for it.

Driving it for the first time feels weird, maybe because of its size and height, but it’s a good car. He’ll get used to it.

He studies the map before his trip, since he’s learned he can’t rely just on his memory alone. His memory has proven to be a fickle thing.

He remembers the general direction being Gloucestershire, and the main destination has something to do with a lake in the name, but that’s where his memory turns hazy. Arthur locates his best guess on the map and punches it into the navigation system, deciding that’s what he’s going to look for. He makes it out of London and changes motorways several times until he hits the A44 towards Oxfordshire, then switches to the A3400, where he stays for a long time. Once the nice part of the motorway ends, he begins appreciating the perks of an off-road vehicle -- a couple of miles in, and he stops worrying that his teeth will rattle off or the bottom of the car will fall out when he hits a particularly rough patch.

Two hours and one stop to fill up the fuel tank later, he’s still driving and is starting to think he’s not going to make it to the next petrol station. At this point, he’s circled every estate in the area, including the ones named after lakes, and he’s almost lost all hope. Why did he think this was a good idea? He drives through another area with the field on the left and the grove on the right -- the landscape he’s already sick of -- when his car hits such a massive hole, he’s surprised he’s made out of it in one piece, and his hearts skips a beat. He slams on the brakes, jumps out of the vehicle, and whoops with joy as he recognises a familiar structure, looming through the trees. Fucking yes!

Arthur isn’t looking for anything in particular, coming here. At this point, it’s all about tracing his steps to find every tangible clue that can help to separate real events from delusion, and since he can’t touch the night of his final breakdown -- not yet -- this is a good start. Arthur already knows where it will end. He’ll be tracing it all back to the day when Morgana offered him a sleeping remedy. Because although Arthur might have had temporary lapses of clarity due to some extenuating circumstances, he’s now certain that his search, at the end, will bring him back to Morgana’s office. And he can’t say he’s looking forward to that prospect.

In all honesty, Arthur doesn’t think Merlin will pop up from behind the tree with a “ta-da!” and jazz hands. He doesn’t think the barn will look like a disenchanted witch house, since the shimmer of hallucinogens no longer clouds his vision. He doesn’t even hope to get inside the barn.

What he really doesn’t expect is to find the door of the barn wide open and every wall stripped naked of any evidence of recent habitation.

 

 

**July 4th, 2013**

 

“I found a Merlin,” Leon tells him, sounding tired over the phone. “Merlin Emrys, born in Brecon, Wales. Dark hair. Six feet tall. Twenty-five years young. Completed progamme of chemical engineering at UCL. Postgraduate research in Environmental System Modeling and Optimisation.  Does it sound like our guy?”

So, chemical engineering. Research degree. Wow. UCL.

Arthur’s speechless for so long, Leon prompts, “Arthur, mate?”

“I’m here, here.”

“Oh. So. Is that him?”

“I--” Arthur sits down. He wants it to be his Merlin so badly. “I think so.”

“Wasn’t that hard to find, actually. Sending you his picture now.”

Arthur gets irrationally angry. “Could’ve done it first, Leon.”

“And what if it’s not him? I’m not about to start sending you pictures of random blokes.”

“Are you _sending_?”

“Already. Check your email.”

Arthur almost breaks his finger pushing the latch to open his laptop. He has to enter his password several times before getting it right, his hands are shaking so badly.

“Where is it? It’s not here!”

“Calm down, give it a second.”

Arthur hits refresh like it’s his lifeline.

“Got it?”

“Yes,” Arthur chokes out, staring at Merlin’s face staring at him. “Yes, it’s him, Leon. He is real.”

“Oh, mate,” is all Leon offers.

Arthur pulls the laptop closer and leans in to study Merlin on the screen: the familiar strokes defining the lines of his jaw, cheekbones, brows, and his full mouth. The photo is black and white, probably from Merlin’s uni ID. In his black-rimmed glasses, he’s clean-shaven, looking very patiently into the camera, his lips slightly parted. This Merlin is a bit younger -- the picture is probably from a couple of years ago -- but still, it is his Merlin.

When Arthur remembers how to breathe again, he goes back to the email.

“Where's the rest of his info?” he asks, disgruntled.

“You’ll have his phone number. Recently updated, by the way, so I’m pretty sure it works. But that’s about it, mate.”

“Why?”

“Because he cleared out. For whatever reason. Don’t be a dick. Contact him once, and if he won’t talk to you, that means he doesn’t want see you, so the last thing you want is to show up at his doorsteps. We should check to see if there’s a restraining order in your name, by the way.”

Arthur groans. “Don’t joke like that, Leon.”

“You think I’m joking. Look, you asked me not to pussyfoot around you, so I won’t. Whatever happened between you is for you to work out, but you said it yourself, you were messed up and you still have a shitload to figure out. Are you sure you didn’t do something or say something to scare the bloke off you? Sure you didn’t _hurt_ him?”

Arthur shakes his head, and shakes it, and shakes it.

“Arthur?” Leon calls.

“I don’t know,” Arthur says in a strangled voice. “No. I couldn’t. I couldn’t hurt him.”

Leon sighs. “So, you’re not sure.”

Arthur closes his eyes. “I realise how it might look, but in my head, Leon, in my head, everything we did together was real. And it was good. Like, stupid good. Doesn’t even compare to anything.”

Arthur hears Leon scratching his beard. “That’s what worries me. All that crap about ‘stupid’ and ‘can’t compare’. You don’t do stupid, Arthur.”

Arthur snorts.

“Oh, get off, would you?” Leon grumbles. “You’ve done plenty of stupid, right. But you sound like you’re ready to put a ring on it, mate. _That_ isn’t you.”

Arthur won’t argue with that, but... “Still, you know me. You _know_ me, Leon. Do you think I’d ever-- That I--”

“No, I don’t.”

Arthur sighs. “Well, at least that. Please, I’d like to talk to him.”

Leon blows a loud breath.

“Oh bugger, Leon. Spit it out. What?”

“When’s your next session?”

Arthur bristles. “Why is that your business?”

“Listen.” Leon clears his throat. “This is not a phone conversation. I have something to say to you, in person.”

“Jesus Christ, what? Just say it.”

“I want to apologise to you.”

“What have you done? Is it Morgana?”

“No, she’s fine. It’s what I haven’t done. I should’ve been a better friend to you. Before.”

“What are you talking about?”

Leon grumbles a curse. “Not a phone conversation, okay? But as a friend, I’m asking you. Don’t try to contact Merlin until you discuss it with your… doctor, therapist, whatever. Consult with him first.”

“Why?” Arthur starts shaking, just hearing the word “doctor”.

“Just, please…”

“He’s not going to tell me not to do it!” Arthur yells. “It’s not how it works, Leon.”

“Yeah, but he may tell you _how_ to do it. So you might be less hurt.”

“Now who’s being stupid.”

“So when’s your next session?”

“Saturday... Leon, don’t fuck with me. I’m not waiting until Saturday.”

“Yes, you are. And if you even think about looking for him behind my back, I’ll file a restraining order on his behalf, if he hasn’t done it already.”

“You bloody--”

“How’s your Rover, Arthur? Enjoying your pimp ride?”

Arthur ends the call and slams his mobile on the table.

 

~*~

 

He doesn’t open Merlin’s picture a hundred times. He doesn’t. Because that’s stupid.

 

 

**July 5th, 2013**

 

“How are you today, Arthur? How is your hand?”

“Fine.”

“Any headaches? Dizziness?”

“No, I’m okay.”

“And how are you feeling overall?”

“I think it’s the same.”

“On a scale from one to ten -- one being in crisis, ten feeling happy -- where are you?”

“A four and a half.”

“That’s very precise.”

“I’m a very precise man, Doc, what can I say?”

“All right. Can you tell me what makes you feel like four and a half?”

“I have the security tape from that morning.”

“That morning…”

“You know, the morning when all the shite went down.”

“Yes. Did you watch it?”

“I can’t.”

“I see. You don’t have to. Don’t push something if you’re not ready. You might never be ready.”

“I wish I could explain this, Doc.”

“Try.”

“It didn’t happen.”

“What didn’t?”

“It didn’t happen until I see it.”

“You don’t want it to be your reality.”

“That's right, I don’t. Am I a coward?”

“Is that what you think of yourself?”

“Yes. No. I mean, I don’t think I’m a coward in general. Just this one thing... Why is this so hard?”

“You just need to work through it. What’s the worst that could happen if you see the footage? Are you afraid that you’ll go into crisis again? Start taking substances?”

“No. I don’t think about that.”

“So, you’re staying healthy.”

“I haven’t even had a beer since, Doc.”

“I’m glad you’re being careful. So what, then?”

“It’s… embarrassing. Have you seen it?”

“Yes, as part of the court evaluation process.”

“Arghhhh.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I know it’s hard. For the embarrassment part, though. Deconstruct it for me.”

“What’s to deconstruct? A CEO of a large corporation, tweaked out of his mind, arrives to the office in his pyjama pants, with a sword, and possibly a come stain on his shirt. ‘Dignity’ written all over it.”

“Not something you plan to tell your children about, then.”

“I’m gay, Doctor Alator. As you know. I don’t plan on having children.”

“Those are not exclusive things, but all right. I apologise for assuming.”

“It’s fine.”

“Do you ever think about the people who faced you that day? How they might have felt?”

“See, that too. I refuse to check YouTube. It probably went viral.”

“That wasn’t what I was asking.”

“What, then?”

“People might have been afraid for their lives. Some claimed they were. Did you think about that?”

“I-- Yes. I did. Doc, I--”

“I need to make sure you hear me, Arthur. This is important. What happened to you was very unfortunate, and I suspect it’s going to stay with you for a long time. I’ll do my best to help you through it. Please remember, no one forced you to self-medicate, but you don't have to beat yourself up forever for having done it. You’re a healthy, smart young man who made some bad choices. The embarrassment part is normal.”

“I understand.”

“Good. How you deal with the consequences is up to you. Where you go from that experience is up to you. You don’t have to remember every moment of that day. You might never have full recollection of it. But I need you to remember that it’s over. You are here now. This is your reality. Me, this room, the court order. This is real. And the minute you start doubting it, you need to pick up the phone and call me. Can we agree on that?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Let’s see if we can help you to feel better than four and a half.”

“Oh, right. Follow the plan.”

“And the plan is…?”

“Channel my energy into something positive, find a project.”

“How are you doing with that?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Good. I'd like you to bring some details to share next week. And Merlin? Are you keeping your word?”

“Well. I--”

“Arthur, we agreed.”

“I found him, Doc. I found Merlin.”

“The man you dated.”

“Don’t look so shocked. I told you he was real.”

“I don’t believe that was the point in question.”

“Right. The point in question is whether our relationship isn’t the stuff of myths.” 

“Do you have the answer?”

“Not entirely, no, but… I have his number, I can talk to him. I want to. I just… What do I say to him?”

“This is not up to me, Arthur.”

“Why not? I need help!”

“He’s not sought you out on his own, correct?”

“No.”

“Then all I can say is your interaction with him, in whatever form, has to be consensual. You must not force this person to talk to you or see you, if it’s not what he wants.”

“Then what do I do?”

“See if you can call him and leave him a message. Leave it up to him to return your call. If he doesn’t, let it go.”

“God. And if he does?”

“And if he does, you will follow his lead.”

 

~*~

 

He calls Leon from home. “Can I have Merlin’s number?”

“You talked to your guy, then?” Leon asks.

“Yes, I did.”

“What did he say?”

“It’s confidential.”

“So is Merlin’s number.”

Arthur sighs. “To call and leave a message, ask for a chance to talk. He… Yeah. So…”

“What if you call and he picks up?”

“Fuck.” Arthur hasn’t even thought about that scenario. “I don’t know. I’ll hang up?”

“Sixth form, all over again, mate.”

“Fuck off, Leon. You’re a dick.”

“I’m prepping you. It’s a big deal, yeah?”

Arthur rubs his forehead. “Yeah. I’ll call him really late? Like, at night?”

“Or you can text him,” Leon suggests.

Arthur grimaces. “Impersonal. And… I don’t know... I think I want to hear his voice.”

Leon starts making cooing noises.

“Oi,” Arthur objects. But he can’t really argue with Leon, since Leon, the bastard, has Merlin’s number. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just give it to me.”

“But you’ll behave, yeah?” Leon sounds serious now. “And you’ll call me if something goes wrong or something's iffy, all right?”

“You are not my therapist.”

“Might as well be. Could use the money… Check your email, mate. And good luck.”

 

~*~

 

When he really starts thinking about what he’ll say to Merlin, he comes up short. He’s not going to hang up if Merlin picks up -- Leon’s right, that’s ridiculous -- but if Arthur doesn’t want him to hang up before he hears him out, Arthur better not stutter. He might, though. Because it’s _Merlin_ , and he misses him, and eloquence is not always Arthur’s best friend. 

And if he receives a firm rejection -- which is entirely possible, considering all the given facts -- he’ll move on. Because that’s what people do when someone they dated just for a few weeks but grew fond of breaks their damn heart. They move on.

He dials a few digits of Merlin’s number and changes his mind enough times to face the reality that he’s not ready. He’s not ready to have his heart broken, and he doesn’t really know where to move on to if he’s faced with that choice. He has no idea how other people do it. What's their trick?

His blood runs cold in his veins when he thinks that Merlin might have seen the security tape. Seen him unhinged, and with terrified people around. It’s not a realistic scenario, since Morgana did everything possible to make sure the incident didn’t leak to the press. Of course it was mentioned in a few places, because people talk no matter what, but at least there weren’t any _pictures._

But if Arthur has a copy of the recording, someone else might as well. All he can do is place his faith into Leon taking care of the tapes before leaving PPH. Still… He was terrible, and if this is why Merlin doesn’t want anything to do with him, Arthur can’t blame him one bit.

He opens his laptop and clicks on the email from Leon before his resolve dissipates. The video starts playing. It’s a surprisingly decent quality of footage of the entrance and the lobby of the PPH building, with people filtering in and out after touching their security badges at the gate by the lifts. The timer in the lower-right corner of the recording keeps running, running, running, seconds ticking away, separating the part of Arthur’s life he knew was normal, if not terribly exciting or happy, from the other part of his life -- the one he has now, where nothing is familiar anymore and he has to learn who he is all over again.

The time is ticking. At 09:16:36 the revolving doors are moving again, and he recognises his own silhouette behind the glass; another step, and he’ll be in full view.

Arthur closes the file and gets up from his desk.

He doesn’t need to remember every detail of that day, he decides. He’s here now, and that’s what he must face.

 

 

**July 6th, 2013**

 

He reads the files -- only stopping for food and loo breaks -- for the entire day. Turns out, batty Arthur from that night left him comprehensive notes -- copious amounts of margin notes, and sometimes extensive comments written across the pages in his chicken scratch, making it difficult to read the original text.

Some of them make sense, some are completely batshit crazy talk, some are even funny.

On the top of Gaius’s first bio page, he had written: _beware of dentures_ , and _fancied Uther's cock,_ which makes Arthur choke on his tea.   

Anhora has a cat food advertising jingle on the margins of his file, and it takes Arthur a while to figure out how it can possibly be related to their VP of Clinical Operations. _I like chicken, I like liver, meow meow meow please deliver._ What the hell is this? When he finally puts it together with Anhora’s philanthropic passion for animals, he bursts out laughing.  

Tristan earned only a few words, which Arthur finds incredibly helpful, but is kind of peeved that he only thought of them in a delusional state. The suggestions are simple and to the point: _web design, patients, make an offer._

He finds out the truth about Agravaine and regrets that there’s no such thing as disinheriting one's uncles. Or maybe there is, and he should definitely look it up.

Opening Cenred’s info, Arthur can tell that the delirious state he was in had taken up a few notches at that point, and his paranoia started kicking in full force. There’s nothing constructive in Arthur’s comments about their VP of Brand Strategy, although he wholeheartedly agrees with his own succinct assessment of Cenred as _a special brand of fucktard._

Leaving Morgana for last, Arthur goes for Odin’s file, and then he remembers something.

He flips Morgana’s file open and pulls the pictures taken by Odin. He shuffles through them one by one until he finds what he’s looking for. How he could’ve missed it the first time, Arthur doesn’t know, but here it is. Morgana’s in the passenger seat of someone’s car, smiling and leaning to the driver for a kiss, half of the driver’s face hidden by the flipped-down visor. The next picture is taken on a different day, judging by the darker colour of her top. Morgana’s in the same car, and the driver is handing her a paper bag. It’s hard to tell much from the quality of the picture, but something tugs at his brain when he studies the bag.

When it clicks in Arthur's head, he exhales sharply and jumps to his feet. He runs to the loo and comes back with the brown bag he took from Morgana’s bedroom and hasn’t touched since. He studies the white label on the bag in his hand with the white spot on the bag in Morgana’s companion hand. He is not a forensic expert, but only the blind wouldn't be able to tell that it's the same bag, and he already knows what’s in it.

Or does he really? That, and he must find out the driver’s identity.

 

 ~*~

 

His brain is about to start oozing out of his ears, but he just can’t let it go. In hopes that he might find the pictures in larger resolution, he goes through Odin’s files saved for him by Leon on the flash drive, until he finds what he’s looking for. It’s disgusting that he has to stoop this low and search through some stalker’s photos of his sister taken in private settings, but then again, Arthur’s already hit rock bottom. Might as well take advantage of the natural habitat.

The electronic version of the file he needs is much better. He’s able to zoom in enough to almost see a lower part of the face of the person. Almost. It even looks like someone he might know, but no one specific comes to mind. The hand holding the bag most likely belongs to a woman -- fingers too thin, and the bracelet on the wrist is too feminine. The bracelet. Wide cuff with a large stone -- he’s seen it somewhere before. He swears he has.

Morgana’s party! On a hand holding a flute of champagne.

He dials Gwen this instant.

“Arthur, are you o--”

“Do you, by any chance, have a list of the guests from Morgana’s charity ball this May?” he asks by way of greeting.

“Arthuuuur,” Gwen groans. “Do you know what time it is?”

"Why?"

"It's almost midnight."

“You’re unemployed,” he deadpans. "What’s the difference?"

Gwen sighs. “What do you need?”

“I’m looking for a person. A woman. Long, blond curly hair, Morgana’s height. Chin cleft. She spoke with Morgana at that party.”

“She didn’t leave Morgana alone almost the entire time at that party,” Gwen grumbles.

“You know her!” Arthur yells.

“Shhhh. My brain. Broken,” Gwen complains. “Yes. I know her. You do, too. It was Morgause Gorlois.”

Arthur gnashes his teeth. Of course. How can he not know Morgause Gorlois, the head of Gorlois Group? She's their direct competitor and everloving rival for the market of several products lines.

She’s changed her hair.

And she’s chummy with his sister. Like, exchanging-secret-kisses-and-possibly-illegal-drugs chummy.

Wow, this hurts like hell. He did not expect it to hurt like this. He did not expect any of this.

Morgana has some explaining to do, and if she wants to enjoy her guardianship for any much longer, she better come up with something good.

 

~*~

 

There’s a voicemail message blinking on his mobile. He has to admit that he gets this jittery feeling in his belly every time his mobile rings, which hasn’t been a lot lately. He touches the button to listen and lets out a gust of disappointed air when it’s Morgana. Just Morgana, basically repeating what she’s told him in her email. The meetings are mandatory, don’t fuck it up. Don’t be tardy. Behav-- He deletes it without listening through. The voicemail lady informs him that he has one more message, and Arthur shakes his head that fine, let’s do one more.

At first it’s just static, a few long seconds of a soft noise, the sound of it making the skin on the back of his neck prickle. He holds his breath.

_This is it, Arthur,_ a painfully familiar voice tells him quietly. _I hate you. This is it._   

And the static goes dead.

Arthur drops the mobile. Leans to pick it up and is attacked by such an immense head rush, he barely makes it to the loo.

He retches until there’s nothing but acid.

When he’s able to unbend his fingers and knees, he finds the mobile and listens to the message again. He wants to know just one thing. Choosing the option to return the call to sender gives him a familiar result -- the number’s no longer in service. Then he checks the envelope of the message: _sent June 22nd, at 22:03_. It had floated somewhere in the undulated space of torn realities and lost minds, and found its way home only now.

Arthur stretches down on the bathroom floor with his ear pressed to the warm tiles and closes his eyes, listening to the soft gurgle of the water running in the pipes underneath.

 

 

**July 7th, 2013**

 

It doesn’t matter the place, when Morgana enters the room, the effect on the public is typically similar to the Beauxbatons girls gliding into the Hogwarts Great Hall in _The Goblet of Fire._ Morgana doesn’t glide; she doesn’t shimmy hummingbirds and glitter out of her behind with every step. She normally doesn’t even spare a glance at the people around her when she walks to her destination. But she has this distinct air of significance and unattainability about her that, on top of her stunning looks, has people swoon and whisper at the mere sight of her. Some occasionally even dare to clap.

Arthur’s used to it. He actually finds it annoying, especially when Morgana starts talking.

“You don’t look too hot,” Morgana says as she sits down at the table with a bored and exhausted Arthur.

Yes, he’s on time, and Morgana’s late on purpose. He knows her all too well.

“And you look particularly harpynised.”

Morgana places her napkin on her lap and arches her groomed-down-to-a-pixel eyebrow. “Harpynised? That’s not a word.”

“You still rock the look.”

Morgana picks up the menu and glances at him. "So how are you, brother?"

"Peachy. You can put that in your next report."

"Don't be fresh, it doesn't help your case."

Arthur leans back on his chair and crosses his arm. "My case."

"Yes, you know. Your _court_ case? The one that involved hiding you in a psychiatric ward so you weren't thrown in jail. You are not off the hook yet."

Arthur pulls his mouth into a tired smile. "Right. I fucked up, you swooped in, and saved my sorry, undeserving arse with your clever tactic. Gaius helped. Right?"

Morgana glares at him. "You should thank us."

"Have you made up your mind already? I mean, you seem to be sure about my condition."

Morgana puts her menu back on the table. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, what is it? Substance abuse, loose marbles, insomnia? What’s the official version you're working with? Just so I maintain the cover for PPH."

"I don't need you to cover. And you should read your court papers. Open your bloody mail once in a while."

"What do you need from me, Morgana? Why are we doing this?" Arthur waves around and drops his hand back on the table. "To check it off your list? Or you have something to share?"

"I need you to get better! I've been trying to help, you ungrateful cock!"

"Oh dear, such foul words in such a fine establishment," Arthur crows. "Is that why you brought me here? So I don't cause a scene?" Something occurs to him, and it's so fucked up, he has to grip on the side of the chair to ground himself. He lowers his voice, carefully choosing his words. "Are you afraid to be alone with me now?"

Morgana's face flushes. "No, no, I’m not!"

"I'm not nutters, Morgana. You’re the one who wanted me to be, remember?"

Morgana levels a firm look at him. "You’re shifting the blame again. Not going to happen."

Arthur raises one finger and pulls his mobile out. He scrolls through his emails, opens one, and places the mobile in front of Morgana. “Recognise this person?"

Morgana glances at the screen. "Sure. Cedric, right? You finally spoke to him?" She flags down the waiter.

“No, Morgana. This...” Arthur flips between the screens and points to the picture he found later on the Pyrotech Works website. “...is Cedric. You should always check who you hire.”

Morgana looks nonplussed. “I did check. I was lied to. What would you’ve want me to do? Run his fingerprints? Have him pee in a cap?”

“You had _me_ do it, and I’m your brother!” Arthur snaps, and this effort zaps nearly all of the  energy he was able to collect for this meeting.

Morgana’s ready to retort, but a beaming waiter appears at her side and starts saying something about today’s fantastic specials, and she shoots him such a murderous glare, he disappears with a puff of smoke. 

“I did what I had to do. I protected you, and I don’t care if you refuse to see it. You should’ve seen yourse--.”

“Protected me? Admitting me wasn’t enough. You deliberately made it worse.  You knew exactly what you were doing, and it wasn’t Merlin you didn’t think existed -- it was me you wanted to disappear. Well done, Morgana, I’m off the radar. Happy?”

“Arthur! I swear--” Morgana drops her knife on the floor with a loud clatter, and at least five people rush to pick it up. She squeezes out a thanks with a tortured smile. The waiter is nowhere to be found.

“Look, I’m tired and not particularly hungry,” he says with a grimace. “Quite frankly, I expected something different from this conversation. This isn't going anywhere.”

“What did you expect me to say?”

Arthur huffs out something resembling a weak laugh.

“The truth, nothing more. Choose the red pill. Set yourself free.”

Morgana rolls her eyes. “You and your _Matrix_ references. So 1999.”

“You’re right, the times have changed. _Green_ is the new black.”

It takes a second for Morgana to catch on, and she pales sickly white once she does. “No. Arthur--”

Arthur can’t do this any more. He sluggishly pushes his chair out. “Really have to go now. Be careful, Morgana. I mean it.” On his feet, he leans over the table closer to her, supporting himself by both hands, and peers into her shockingly green, round eyes. The colour’s always fascinated him. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he says earnestly.

“And if I don’t?” she asks. 

Arthur shrugs. “Then you go to people you trust. They will not steer you wrong.”

He jiggles a finger to catch the waiter’s attention. “A glass of 2006 _La Landonne_ for the lady here,” he calls, then glances at Morgana’s lost expression. “On second thought, bring the lady the whole bottle.”

Morgana looks like she could use at least three.

And he feels like he could use at least three hundred hours of sleep.

"Arthur." She catches his hand when he turns to leave. She bites her lip. "I'm sorry. About Merlin. I really thought..."

"It doesn't matter now. It's over."

"Oh, Arthur. And there's no chance?"

Arthur looks around at all the people chewing, talking, laughing and generally having a good time on a Sunday afternoon. All normal and domesticated. Why can't he have that?

Not in the cards, then.

"I'm in love with him," he says, and it feels good to say it out loud. It feels real. Because it is. "But no, there's no chance."

 

 

**July 11th, 2013**

 

Mid-summer rolls into London, bringing a swell of sweltering, exhausting heat. The sun blazes across the sky without mercy, unleashing relentless waves of blistering air on the city, and leaving it lethargic and sun-burnt.

Arthur buys ice-cold lemonade and a pack of vanilla wafers in a nearby patisserie, and walks back home staying close to the shadows, cast by buildings. He can’t imagine eating anything else right now, afraid he’s too beat to even process more substantial food.

He strips himself of all clothes and falls into his bed, weak from the heat and the constant, dull ache in his muscles from all the working out he’s been doing. His fingers smell faintly of vanilla and it comforts him.

It took him days of agonising, but today marks the day when he finally can admit that he'll never make the call, and he finds that he's okay with that.

Letting go is the right thing.

 

 

**July 12, 2013**

 

“How are you doing today, Arthur?”

“Okay.”

“Could you please measure it for me?”

“Yeah…”

“Arthur, please answer my question. How do you feel today?”

“Don’t know.”

“Do you want to think about it? I'll wait.”

“No, I don't.”

“I still need you to tell me how you feel.”

“‘M tired.”

"Have you been sleeping and eating properly this week?"

"Somewhat."

"Arthur, do you want extra help with your diet? Should we work out your self-care goals?”

“No. I know how to take care of myself. It’s the heat. It’s making me… not want things.”

“I see. Anything else in particular bothering you?”

“No. Look, can we not do this today?”

“Do what?”

“Talking.”

“You don’t want to talk.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, you are already here...”

“Yes, on court order.”

“I’m still glad you didn’t skip the session, even if you didn’t feel like coming. It's important you keep these sessions.”

“Uhm."

"Do you play chess, Arthur?"

"Chess? A little."

"Since it's a no-talking day, how about we crack a board? Beware, I'm very good at it."

"Doctor Alator, are you riling me up?"

"Is it working?"

"Get your board out. I am kicking your arse."

 

 

**July 18th, 2013**

 

When Gwen sends him the one hundred fifteenth message, all in caps because she loves to yell at him even when she’s not here: _ARE YOU WORKING ON IT???_ he decides it's about time she tastes her own medicine, so he calls her.

“I can’t come right now, Arthur, I’m busy,” she hisses.

“No you're not,” Arthur says.

“I'm on a date, I have a life. Get one.”

Arthur knows that tone; she’s about to have a fit, which is not in his best interest.

"You told me to work on it. You can't expect me to do it alone," he says, and hedges, "I’ll order pie."

“Which kind?”

“From Tomtom, of course.”

Gwen ponders for a beat.

“Call the Elizabeth Street one, they’re closing at eight. Make sure they put some aside. It's blueberry today and it's very popular.”

How Gwen knows all this, will forever be a mystery to him.

“Arthur, I’ll be at yours in forty-five, and it better be there or I swear I’ll have you for a pie. You’re interrupting my time with Lance.”

“Hi, Lance!” Arthur yells, but the line’s already dead.

 

~*~

“What’s with the green theme?” Gwen asks, glancing at Arthur, and starts chucking her shoes off. “Are you ill?” She then straightens up so fast, it even makes Arthur dizzy, her mouth hanging open. She pulls him to the light and slaps her hands on his cheeks. “Look at me. Why are you so pale? Are you sick? Why are you sick? Are you--”

“Guinevere.” Arthur removes her hands from his face. “Calm the fuck down. I’m fine.”

“You called, you never call me. I mean, you call me all the time, but for stupid stuff. Like to book a restaurant for you or call a taxi, which you're perfectly capable of doing yourself, but you’re an arse and you don't think I might have more important things to do. But for big things, Arthur. You never call me. You never call _anyone_ when you really really--”

“Gwen, breathe.” Arthur shakes her slightly, until her eyes focus on him again. “Your lips are turning blue. Stop.”

"Arthur." She takes a long, wheezing breath. “Are you using again?”

Arthur sighs, takes her by the shoulders and leads her to the kitchen.

“Sit," he instructs and waits until Gwen sits down. “Listen.” He waits until she folds her hands on the table, like she’s in fifth year all over again.

“I need you to understand something.” Arthur sits down as well after turning on the kettle. “I am not using. I have never been using. _Not_ intentionally.” He motions at her to stop when she opens her mouth. “Yes, I have taken some shite at the parties, who hasn't. Yes, there were some substances involved recently that affected my behaviour, which I sincerely apologise for, but it was a misunderstanding and it won’t happen again. And no, I am not nutters. There's nothing wrong with me. Questions?”

Gwen shifts her eyes, thinking. Looks at him again and shakes her head, with her mouth still clamped shut.

“Good,” Arthur says. “With that said, I do need help.”

Gwen nods vigorously and Arthur rolls his eyes. But he must say, silent Gwen is a vast improvement in their communication; he rather enjoys her that way and knows just the thing to keep it up for a little longer.

He places a box with four slices of blueberry pie, still warm, on the table in front of her and takes vanilla bean ice cream from the freezer. Gwen's eyes light up. In fairness, half of that dessert should be his, but knowing Gwen's pie addiction, he'll be lucky to get any.

Gwen tucks in without asking for a spoon.

“At least wait for the tea,” he says, very fondly.

Gwen grins with her mouth stuffed, her teeth purple, and Arthur laughs. “Gross.”

 

~*~

 

“So you want me to help you with the business plan?” Gwen asks, looking surprised and kind of excited. “You know I was just trying to give you a push in the arse, right? I wasn't serious.”

“About the money part, or about the partner part? Because that’s pretty much the same thing. I need money, and I can’t enter into partnership with you without your having invested a share.”

“Look at you, going all business on me.”

“I _am_ all business. I just have a different idea how to run it.”

“And you want my help.”

“It'll take work. I expect you to contribute -- as soon as we clear up the terms of partnership, of course.”

Gwen smiles. “Of course.”

All jokes aside, Gwen's impressively savvy with her finances, and has something to show for it. Unthinkable, but it turns out, Uther was the one helping her to grow her portfolio in the early days. His guidance and timely hints concerning the stock market ensured she wasn’t just comfortable with her money. Gwen is actually quite wealthy.

“So you want me to do the secretarial work for you again?” She quirks her eyebrow.

“If I’m to eat shite to have the rest of the money, the least you can do is schedule the time for me to do it.”

“Ew.”

“I know this is just a concept and I’m probably ahead of myself. We’ll need contracts, we’ll need to sell this thing. And we’ll need more help to lift it off the ground.” He’s thinking out loud. “We need someone who has experience with the MHRA approval process. And someone skilled to design and build the web portal.” He starts smiling.

Gwen clears her throat. “Arthur…”

He looks at her. “Yeah?”

“Are we really doing this? Together?” she asks, her eyes wide and bright.

He smiles. “I think so. Are you in?”

She offers him a hand. “I’m in. Are you in?”

“I’m in.” He shakes it.

Gwen grins. “I’m pleased.”

 

~*~

 

Gwen’s putting on her shoes and Arthur’s leaning on the wall, mind empty and body heavy. It’s been another draining day.

“So, Arthur,” she asks, with that special soft glint in her eyes. “Why me?”

Arthur shrugs and tells her honestly. “Because I trust you. Because you’re smart and caring. Because you'll always tell me like it is. And because my therapist says I need a project, and, it turns out, this is all I can manage right now. Oh, and this is the only way to get you off my back."

Gwen laughs. "If this is how you get people off your back, you're doing it wrong."

Arthur shrugs. "Maybe, but I have a feeling I won't regret it... I do have to clear the court matter of course... Gwen,” he prods.

“Hmm?”

“Why me?”

She smiles. “Same reasons. And because one day soon, I want all of us to be back at PPH, and this will make it happen. On our terms.”

“You think so? You think I can do it?”

“You’re a Pendragon. You're born to rule. You can’t help it.”

 

 

**July 31st, 2013**

 

Leon looks like a constipated nun. He’s pursing his lips, picking at his food, watching re-runs of _East Enders_ on telly -- which Arthur hates with a passion -- and acting passive-aggressive in general all week. It isn’t like Leon at all, and frankly, Arthur just doesn’t have it in him to deal with this bullshit.

They’ve fallen into a certain routine as of late.

Leon comes and goes at random hours and talks on his mobile a lot, always leaving for another room when someone calls. Arthur has no idea who he’s talking to. Nor does he care. This house is big enough to lose a few people, but Arthur has an acute feeling that it’s Leon’s way of keeping an eye on him. And whatever, he understands it. He’d probably do the same.

Gwen comes to his house several days a week, takes up the table in the dining room (no one’s ever using it anyway), and spends hours calling the banks, filling out the forms and copious spreadsheets, and typing up Arthur’s notes. They argue -- a lot. Gwen, the personal assistant of Arthur Pendragon, and Gwen, a business partner of Arthur Pendragon, are two vastly different people. Gwen, a business partner, does not back down when she thinks she's right, which is often.

Arthur wants to lease a space and furnish it; he wants a business card with the name of his own company in the header. He wants tangible, real things.

“We haven’t even agreed to the name yet!” Gwen argues, her eyes blazing, and Arthur thinks that Lance is a lucky, lucky man. “We’ve not money for the space!”

Gwen’s right, so right. Arthur’s not used to being rejected. Just mentioning the name Pendragon used to open all the doors and have all kinds of opportunities pouring in. He used to think that if he got one more call from a potential investor, he’d shoot himself. Not anymore.

Apparently, the banks aren’t interested in someone with frozen business accounts and who’s locked in a court order under a guardianship protection due to a bout of temporary insanity.

Who could blame them, but it’s just all very discouraging and frustrating.

So he doesn’t need to deal with Leon sulking around his house and giving him the silent treatment.

Arthur scrubs his cheeks, tired. “Leon. Just out with it already. I know there’s something.”

Leon glances at him and turns away.

“Right… Am I expected to read your mind?”

“You really don’t want to do that,” Leon mutters.

“That bad?”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Because you’re a bloody wanker who doesn’t share!”

“Morgana won’t talk to me anymore.”

“You’re kidding me. All this, because you’re being cockblocked?”

“You _would_ assume so immediately, wouldn’t you?”

Arthur closes his laptop and pushes it aside. “Kitchen. There’s beer.”

Leon follows him without an argument. Arthur takes a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, hands Leon a bottle of Heineken.

“What’s happening, Leon?”

“Something is happening. I don’t know. She told me if she sees me or Perce or anyone else around her house, she’ll stab me in the balls.”

Arthur winces. “I believe her. Odin’s still lying low?”

“Yes, and that’s the thing. I can’t catch that piece of shite in the act. I hate that I can’t keep an eye on him in the office personally anymore.”

“I know. I know. But he’s not an idiot. He wouldn’t be trying anything there.”

“This is so messed up, Arthur.”

Leon has no idea. Odin isn’t Arthur’s only worry. Odin’s an obvious, transparent problem, and the only reason they haven’t made a move on his creepy arse is because stealing the pictures from his mobile isn’t a legal way to prove his guilt. Besides, Morgana’s still refusing to press charges.

Morgause Gorlois is a different story. Arthur still hasn’t told Leon about her. He doesn’t know where he would even start. Arthur has no doubt that Leon, just like Arthur, has spent time studying Odin’s photo archive documenting Morgana’s life. It probably hasn’t escaped Leon’s notice that Morgana was caught at least once at rather intimate moment of almost snogging someone in the car. It probably hasn’t escaped Leon’s notice, since it’s rather obvious upon close inspection, that that someone’s a female. And since Leon, decidedly, doesn’t fall under that category, Arthur’s at a loss how to approach this with him.

And that’s not all. That’s the least of Arthur’s concerns at the moment. He can’t talk to Leon about Morgause, because then he’d have to confess that the bag exchanged between her and his sister in another picture is currently in his possession. He’d have to somehow explain that the bag contains illegal chemicals, packaged in the form of pills ready for consumption. Then, he’ll have to share with Leon that Morgana offered some of them to Arthur under the pretense of helping with his sleeping problem. And he stole from her the rest. And then used them. A lot.

Sounds like a great story.

He doesn’t know how to tell Leon that he knows Morgause, has seen her tactics, watched her for years, and that she’s a manipulative bitch who’s hungry for power and won’t stop at anything to get what she wants. Morgana’s no match for her.

He’s done his homework; he’s well aware that Gorlois Grouphas grown at rapid rate in the past five years. A little too rapid even for a company with a few successful products lines on the market. The company doesn’t seem to have any problem finding new investors, has already acquired several smaller companies, and is looking for more. Pendragon PH, in its weakened state after Uther’s death and with a nutter as a new owner, may be a great candidate. Except Arthur knows for a fact that Gorlois Group can’t afford Pendragon PH; won’t be able to for at least another ten years, even considering their rapid growth. But if Morgana Pendragon starts to like Ms Gorlois at this convenient time, then it becomes a completely different transaction. Instead of an acquisition, it becomes a merger -- a joint effort with mutual benefits. With Arthur Pendragon driven off the cliff, Morgause Gorlois joins Morgana Pendragon at the top of the empire.

Jesus, it sounds paranoid even to him. He’s already gone that route once -- went to war, tilting at the windmills -- and look where it’s gotten him.

Even if he does tell all this to Leon, there’s still one tiny problem: Morgana has no idea Arthur took the pills. He’s the one who’s driven himself over the edge. This trips him up every time. He builds his theories like a tower of Jenga, and then, with a small piece pulled out -- the entire careful construction crashes down. 

He has no proof -- just a gut feeling -- and goddammit, he’s in no position to operate on feelings, even if his gut’s telling him that there’s more to this mess, indeed. But it’s there and persistent, and it tells him in no uncertain terms to keep their eyes peeled, because Morgana might be in deep, deep trouble.

 

 

**August 28th, 2013**

 

He puts his house on the market and immediately hates the estate agent, who uses a patronising tone with him as she starts explaining to Arthur that the “priced to sell” tactic doesn’t work in the areas like Belgravia. Properties like Arthur’s take time to stage, market, and showcase. Selling it for less than the market dictates it for, would mean driving down the prices for his neighbours.

“And we don’t want that, dear, do we?”

Arthur doesn’t give a dog’s bollocks what his neighbours want. He needs the money, and frankly, he doesn’t see why he has to endure the lecture.

“You have thirty days to sell this property, Ms Reeves,” he answers through his teeth. “If you’re not up for the task, I’ll call someone else.”

Ms Reeves squeaks her agreement and promises to fax over the paperwork. Since Arthur hasn’t owned a fax a day in his life, he's glad he won’t hear from Ms Reeves again.

He turns to Gwen, who’s cheerfully typing away on her laptop and hasn’t said a word this entire time.

“I’m not selling your damn house, Arthur,” she says calmly, not looking away from the screen. 

Arthur groans. “They’re all horrid. I can’t do this.”

“Poor baby, would you like me to powder your bum while I’m changing your nappies?” she asks with the same unimpressed expression.

“I can powder it myself,” he mutters, hiding a smile.

“That’s a good lad. Now, Arthur.” She clicks a button on her laptop with a flourish and the printer sitting next to it comes to life. “This is the last of your presentation for tomorrow, just so you can see how it looks on paper. I'm going to print and bind the rest of the copies and will bring them to the conference directly. Nine-fifteen, on the dot, Arthur. Don’t be late.”

“But the conference doesn’t start until ten!” he squawks.

“I’m allowing you ten minutes to vomit your breakfast and thirty to clean you up,” she says, absolutely serious.

“I hate you. Why did I hire you?”

“You didn’t hire me, you dolt. I’m your partner. And you’re going to be brilliant tomorrow.” She kisses him on the cheek. “Get some sleep. You’re ready. I know you are.”

Arthur sighs and nods.

He won’t sleep; of course he won’t sleep. There’s still so much to do: numbers to double-check, note cards to sort through, presentation to re-rehearse, one more workout to squeeze in, and then he'll hopefully pass out for a few hours.

He goes back to his desk and opens his laptop. Presentation rehearsal it is.

 

 

**August 29th, 2013**

 

The night passes by in a blur. The morning is a somber affair of taking a short, cold shower to wake up, packing his laptop and notes, and dressing up in a suit for the first time in weeks and feeling out of his skin in it. He chooses to forgo a tie because he looks too “money” in it, and this is not what today is about. And then it’s a flurry of cars in the streets’ traffic, texts from Gwen, _Don’tbelatedon’tbelatedon’tbelate;_ Leon’s, _You’re going to kill it, mate,_ and Morgana’s phone number flashing on his mobile’s screen. He doesn’t pick up.

Gwen’s encouraging smile and a quick hug; his registration ID clipped to his lapel and a bottle of water in his hand; turn around and a little push. “Off you go, Arthur. Make us be heard.”

He’s going to. That’s the idea.

His mouth is dry, the sound of his steps muffled to his ears as he takes a walk to the podium, and he’s nervous, so nervous up until he’s standing in the large, bright auditorium, in front of an audience waiting for him to speak.

He takes a sip from his water and clears his throat. And then he pushes the first few words of his speech out, rehearsed and familiar on his tongue, and he’s surprised how smooth and steady his voice sounds, amplified by the mic. And before he realises it, he’s well into it, fired up, and presenting the most important work of his life to date.

 

~*~

 

Tristan slaps Arthur’s shoulder a few times. “Well done, Arthur.”

The people are trickling out of the auditorium, and soon it’s almost empty.

“Thank you for coming, Tristan,” Arthur says, smiling. “Glad you could make the time.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it.” Tristan’s holding several copies of his presentation, helpfully supplied by Gwen. “There are a few people I know who’d be interested in your solution.”

“I was hoping you’d be one of them.” Arthur doesn’t want to beat around the bush. “We could use your knowledge in--” Arthur glances behind Tristan’s shoulder and has to do a double-take, words catching in his throat.

“Arthur?”

Arthur’s hands start to shake and he has to take a deep breath to steady himself, because it’s either this or he’ll have to start calling Doctor Alator’s emergency line right bloody now.

“Arthur, are you all right?”

He stares at Tristan’s frowning face for a long, baffled moment, struggling to keep his eyes on him and not on that one still-taken seat in the top row of the auditorium.

Tristan coughs politely, bringing Arthur back to the orbit. Dammit. He can’t afford to muck this up. He can’t.

He shakes his head, forcing а smile.

“Right. As I was saying…”  He places a hand on Tristan’s shoulder with another -- he hopes more assuring  -- smile, and nudges him a little in a suggestion to walk with him.

He has to walk away from here. Now.

“We could use your expertise,” he continues saying -- or more like hears himself saying it, still a little shaken -- and glad Tristan nods and follows him.

Half an hour later, he has a meeting set up with Tristan the following week to go over the business proposal, Gwen’s sent home, and he’s in the restroom on the second floor, his face in the mirror wet and eyes a little wild. Maybe he _should_ call Doctor Alator, just for the sanity check. Because for a moment there, in the auditorium, he’d thought it finally happened. That despite all his hard work trying to escape it, it had happened anyway -- he’d gone bonkers.

 

~*~

 

He’s standing right outside of the restroom, leaning into the wall. And Arthur doesn’t trip over his feet, he doesn’t. He walks past him like it’s nothing. Like he’s a figment of his imagination and not at all a real person, which he isn’t -- as Arthur decided some time ago for his own sake.

“Arthur.”

He flinches but keeps going.

“Arthur, please.” He grabs Arthur’s arm.

Arthur whirls around and throws a punch. 

 

~*~

 

“Are you insane?” Merlin asks, pushing himself off the wall he’s just slammed into and rubbing his shoulder.

Arthur laughs. Oh, he laughs. Jesus fucking Christ, he can’t stop laughing.

“Is everything all right here?” the lady with the tag hanging off her neck indicating her official status asks, assessing them with stern eyes.

“We’re fine, yes, yes,” Merlin assures her, dropping his hand, and Arthur’s not going to lie, he’s surprised.

He’s imagined their meeting and their first conversation so many times, and it’s never taken this particular route in any of his scenarios. And he certainly didn’t expect Merlin to try to cover up for him after he delivered a pretty mean throw. Merlin’s supposed to hate him; he isn’t supposed to be here in the first place. Merlin isn’t supposed to exist.

The lady flicks her eyes to Arthur’s ID still clipped on his chest. “Mr Pendragon,” she greets with a nod. Admiring her subtle way of pointing out she now has his identity and won’t allow any trouble, Arthur acknowledges the warning with a nod back.

The lady leaves and Merlin blocks his way when he tries to move. “Arthur.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, staring Merlin dead in the face. “Do I know you?”

Merlin blanches. There’s a small sense of satisfaction in seeing him like this, flustered, with hurt in his deep-blue eyes and the smattering of freckles, dark on his paled cheeks. Arthur used to like those freckles; he’s forgotten how much.

He salutes Merlin, steps around him, and starts walking away.

Merlin curses.

“Can you just--” he says, rushing after him. He quickly pulls back when Arthur huffs and jerks his arm away, but still tries another, “Arthur, please--”

“What?” Arthur halts his steps, turning to Merlin. There’s a slight note of hysteria in his voice, to his embarrassment. Jesus fuck. He scowls. “Please, what?”

“I--” Merlin starts and exhales a shaky breath. “You-- I just wanted--”

“No,” Arthur says. “No. You abandoned me. So you,” he jabs his finger at Merlin’s chest, “don’t get to call me insane.”

“Me? Oh you--”

This time Merlin pushes him. Swats Arthur’s arm away and pushes him in his chest with both hands. Shoves him so hard, he stumbles back and hits a conference room sign on the easel behind him, and it topples over with a crash. Arthur doesn’t care how much noise this makes; he kicks it out of the way and straightens up immediately, ready to launch at Merlin. But before he has a chance to, Merlin pushes him again, shoves him against the wall, and gives him another push yet, until Arthur’s head connects with it with a thud. Arthur tries not to wince.

“ _I_ abandoned you?” Merlin pants, and he’s so very close, their chests almost touching. “You miserable clot. You broke up with _me_! _God_!” He kicks the wall next to Arthur. “Where do you get off?”

Arthur drops his shoulders, no longer standing defensively. “What?”

“You heard!”

He’s practically pinned against the wall, and Merlin’s looming over him. Tall, eyes blazing with fury, mouth parted in harsh breathing, blush high on the apples of his sharp cheeks. _Gorgeous_. Arthur hasn’t forgotten how gorgeous Merlin is. Mostly convinced himself that no real person could be as perfect Arthur painted him to be in his mind, so he could live without him. And just when it had almost started to work...

“What?” he asks again, chest constricting with ache.

“ _You_ didn’t want…” Exhaling sharply, Merlin takes a step back. “Didn’t want _us_. Do you know how it feels when you think you finally found… when you’ve something… something… and it all turns out to be a stupid lie. The second I _opened up_ to you…”

“Merlin,” Arthur says. This is not making any sense. “What?”

“That’s all you can say?” Merlin’s barely muting a shout.

“Wait.” Arthur peels himself off the wall and rubs a hand over his face. “Just… Hold on a minute.”

“I’ve been holding. You know how long?” Merlin asks bitterly.

A large guy rounding the corner looks awfully like building security, and Arthur grabs Merlin by his arm and drags him away. Away. Out. Somewhere they can calm down and hopefully talk.

Merlin doesn’t fight him.

 

~*~

 

They’re avoiding each other’s eyes while riding the lift. Arthur panics briefly, thinking he’s forgotten his laptop in the conference room, only to remember that Gwen’s taken it with her. She did the right thing, of course, since he can’t be trusted with even simple things, not to mention important, crucial things, like keeping a memory of breaking up with his boyfriend.

Outside the building, Arthur says softly, “So,” to a looking shell-shocked and lost all at once Merlin and touches his shoulder. Arthur isn’t certain why Merlin seems so out of sorts, since he’s gotten the distinct impression Merlin came to see him. To talk. To pin him to the walls. Or maybe he didn’t plan any of those things and just happened to be in the same place at the same time, and that’s why he was in Arthur’s auditorium after his presentation and then waited for him by the loo on the different floor. He doesn’t know, and the best conclusion he can come up with is that he can make no conclusive conclusions about this situation. Especially when Merlin looks so terribly put out.

Arthur’s not familiar with this area of the city, but standing in miserable silence and with long faces in front of the convention centre is at the bottom of his list of preferable activities, so he starts moving his feet. Merlin takes a few steps to follow Arthur and stops with a sharp exhale, as if he’s just woken up from some deep, deep, weird dream.

“No, wait--”  he says and rakes a hand through the haystack of his hair that’s right now even more haystack-y than Arthur ever remembers.

Somehow, Arthur isn’t surprised. It would’ve been too much of good fortune for one day to have a chance for a fresh start of something exciting and closure for something painful.

He has neither the right nor the desire to hold Merlin, he knows he doesn’t, but they’re already here, aren't they? It's already happening one way or another, so he tries.

“Look, I’m not sure what this is all about. I’m getting an impression that there was some misunderstanding between us. In fact, I’m certain there must've been. And I wish I could say that, you know, things like that happen between people. Happen all the time, actually. Right? But bloody hell, Merlin, I did not break up with you. And I think at this point, I want to make certain you know this. _I_ didn’t break up with you.”

Arthur looks at Merlin, who stands in the middle of the street with his mouth open, listening.

“So,” Arthur continues, melting at the sight of him like this a little. “If this is why you came here, I hope you heard what you needed to hear. It wasn’t you. It wasn’t even me.”

“Who was it, then?” Merlin asks, knitting his brows.

Arthur scowls, because although his brain’s helpfully stored certain most painful memories away, he doesn't need all the terrible details to put two and two together. And, God, he wishes he could tell Merlin, but then it would mean cracking open the wounds that have just started closing up. Still occasionally threatening to break out through the too-young and soft skin growing in place -- too thin to sustain any real pressure yet. Telling Merlin would mean showing him all his ugly, terrible bits. Bits even he has a hard time reconciling with -- still working on it -- and he knows will take a long time to achieve. Some day, maybe, when he’s better, when he’s finally the person he hopes to become, he may find Merlin. That’s what, if he’s honest with himself, has kept him going. But today is not that day.

“It was someone who doesn’t deserve you,” Arthur says. “I’m sorry.”

A grimace scrunches Merlin’s face up. “And the person who you think abandoned you? What about that person? Do you forgive him?”

Arthur thinks about it. “Was he scared?” he asks.

Merlin nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down under the clean-shaven pale skin Arthur knows to be very soft, still remembering its scent. “Yes,” Merlin answers. “He was scared. Complete shithead about it.”

“Was he hurt?” Arthur asks, his heart skipping several beats, waiting for the answer.

“Not in a physical sense,” Merlin says, then looks away. “But the thought that he might be crossed his mind.”

Arthur tries to keep his composure and his voice from breaking when he says, “Then he did the right thing.”

Arthur takes a slow, careful step to Merlin, fixing his eyes on him, and says softly, “Do you hear me, Merlin? Never, ever be with anyone who you don’t feel safe with. Never. You did the right thing.”

“I hate you,” Merlin whispers, his eyes dark and wet. “ _God_ … Arthur. I--”

Arthur nods, and takes a step back, digging deep inside himself for all the strength he has so that he doesn’t turn around and run.

“Yes,” he rasps out. “I know.”

He takes another retreating step, putting more distance between them. And another.

“No.” Merlin pulls him back by the lapel of his jacket, fisting it between his fingers. “You’ve no fucking idea.”

Arthur lets Merlin manhandle him; he’ll let Merlin hit him this time, if that’s what he needs. Merlin deserves his closure a lot more, regardless of the form it comes in.

He closes his eyes and waits. He waits for a long time, feeling puffs of Merlin’s erratic breath on his face, and he doesn’t dare to breathe him in. Merlin’s hold on him loosens, the warmth of his proximity suddenly gone, and Arthur finds Merlin steps away again, sheepish and with his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“Merlin--” he starts.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” Merlin says and looks down at his feet. “I didn’t come here to tell you I hate you.”

Arthur winces but doesn’t say anything to that.

Merlin looks up at him. “I came here because I wasn’t _done_. Because I wanted to know _why_. And this conversation,” he waves between them, “is bullshit.”

He gazes at Arthur like he’s deciding something very important, biting his lip and trailing his eyes from Arthur’s top to bottom with a slight squint.

“All right,” he says, as if he’s compiled necessary information to go on. “All right. Do you have anywhere to be tonight?”

Arthur shakes his head, surprised. “No.”

“I have to go now, but I’m free around seven.”

Still not certain where this is all going, Arthur waits. Merlin looks at him expectantly, rocking from heels to toes, and it finally hits Arthur.

“Oh, oh. Like, get together around seven?”

“Don’t get any wrong ideas,” Merlin grumbles, his face softer. “Just to talk. I just want to talk.”

Right. Right. To move on.

“Yes, absolutely. I can do that. Uh. Where...” Arthur can’t stand himself babbling, but he can’t stop it, “...exactly you want to meet?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere,” Merlin answers, still staring at Arthur.

“How about ou--” Arthur catches himself before he says “our place”. “I mean, the shawarma place you like?”

Merlin’s expression turns wistful. “I don’t know… I haven’t been there since…” He breathes through his nose. “I haven’t--”

“I know,” Arthur says. “I--” He isn’t sure how to tell Merlin that he went on a mad search for him a while ago without sounding like a creep.

Merlin stays quiet for a moment, studying Arthur again. “Maybe somewhere else, then,” he says finally.

Arthur rubs his forehead. It shouldn’t be such a hard decision to pick somewhere -- there are only a million and a half places in London -- but he comes up short and suggest the very next thing that comes to mind. “My place?”

Merlin stills.

“Bad idea, Arthur.”

This raises a few hackles on Arthur’s neck. “I wasn’t trying to suggest anything by that. I’m not gonna--” He exhales sharply, realising that yes, Merlin has every reason to think it’s a bad idea, and he’s being a dickhead about it. He wavers on his feet. “Merlin, I--”

Merlin’s eyes narrow, and he steps closer. “I am not afraid of you, Arthur. That’s not what I meant.”

“I don’t--”

“What? Don’t assume you understand.”

“No,” Arthur agrees. He swallows. “My place at seven, then? Address is still the same,” he adds, just in case.

“I know,” Merlin says and quickly looks away.

After they part ways with an awkward shuffling of feet and nods goodbye, Arthur thinks that it looks like they have a lot to cover this evening. 

 

~*~

 

He changes his shirt several times, and he’s shaven within an inch of his life. He also leaves a message for Doctor Alator. His next session is not until the day after tomorrow, but for his own peace of mind, he requests to please move his appointment to tomorrow morning instead. Better be prepared.

He’s already talked himself out from leaving the house and staying away for the entire evening more than once. That’s how bad of an idea he realises it is meeting Merlin here. Calling or texting Merlin and telling him he's changed his mind would mean admitting that he knows his new phone number, and he just can’t do that. This is the line he refused to cross before; nothing’s changed since.

He opts not to make dinner, terrified at the thought that Merlin might assume Arthur considers this to be a date. This is not a date. Of course it’s not a date. There are no dates in Arthur's foreseeable future. Arthur doesn’t plan to live like a monk for the rest of his life, but at this point of his journey, even the thought of going on a simple pull makes him uneasy in the stomach. No, absolutely no dates.

Basically, Arthur’s a nervous wreck by a quarter to seven, when his cleaning lady calls from somewhere downstairs, telling him she’s done for the day and she’ll be back next week. Arthur’s in the middle of changing into another shirt.

She says something else, but before he can question it, he hears the heavy front door shut. It’s quiet, absolutely quiet in the entire house, and Arthur sags onto the bed, with his hands buried in his hair. He has time, not a lot, but that’s all he has to get a bloody grip on himself and deal with this like a man.

“Is this a bad time?” Merlin’s soft voice propels him off the bed.

“Jesus fuck, Merlin.” Arthur clutches at his chest. “You scared the crap out of me. How did you get in here?”

Merlin steps back with his hands up. He's in a dark t-shirt and khaki trousers. His normally disheveled hair is styled back, opening his forehead more, and Arthur likes that. It's not his usual style, and is still kind of in chaos, but it works. He likes the light stubble ghosting his jaw and that his big ears aren’t hidden by the flops of hair. He especially likes the Merlin's ideal proportions, the wide line of his shoulders that offsets his narrow hips. Merlin looks great. Has he been swimming? God, he looks great.

“Sorry! I’m sorry. Liz let me in,” he says.

Arthur blinks. “Who?"

“Your housekeeper?”

“You know her name?”

Merlin fidgets. “I talked to her when we were… She was here when you and I… before. She’s nice.” He runs a hand over his hair, messing it up, of course.

“Does _she_ know your name?” Arthur asks.

Merlin looks at him strangely. “Of course. I mean, it’s polite to introduce yourself when you meet someone new, right?”

Arthur starts laughing. All that time he was running around, looking for something, someone to tell him he wasn’t a complete nut case and that there was a beautiful man named Merlin, who he liked to snog on the couch downstairs until the wee hours of the morning. All he had to do was stop turning his nose up and talk to the person who’s been here for so many years, she’s practically family. Arthur knows her name. Of course, he knows her name. He just rarely addresses her.

“I’m sorry.” Merlin smiles. “What did I say?”

“Nothing.” Arthur shakes his head. “Nothing. You’re perfect.”

The pause that falls between them right after these words cannot be more awkward.

“Bollocks,” Arthur mutters. “Merlin--”

“No, it’s fine, fine… So, I’m gonna be downstairs, yeah?” Merlin asks quickly. “If you still need a minute or…”

Arthur rushes to grab Merlin’s wrist, “Merlin, listen--” and immediately lets it go, terrified he’s just bollocksed it up and Merlin will leave. Of course he’ll leave. Because Arthur can’t keep his damn hands to himself. Never could when it came to Merlin.

Merlin looks at the space between them, at their hands still hovering in the air in hesitation.

“Downstairs, yeah?” he suggests again softly. “Come on.” And Arthur follows him, like a pup trailing after a rope with a treat.

“I saw boxes in the hall,” Merlin says when they sit down on the couch, breaking another awkward silence. “Bought something new?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No.” He considers if he should offer some excuse and thinks he has no energy to make things up. “Giving stuff away.”

“Summer cleaning?” Merlin chuckles.

“Not exactly. I’m moving.”

Merlin turns to him, his jaw slacking a little. “Moving?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. Arthur rises to his feet. “Do you want a beer? Maybe wine?”

Merlin searches his face, then shakes his head. “You know, you’re the only person who’s ever treated me to wine. I know shite about it.”

“Beer, then,” Arthur agrees. “Be right back.”

But Merlin doesn’t listen to that. He’s hot on Arthur’s heels, stepping after him into the kitchen and half-blocking the door with his tall, lanky frame leaning against it. Arthur takes out a bottle of beer, offering it to Merlin. Water, as usual, for him, and it doesn’t escape Merlin’s sharp eyes. Arthur can see that it doesn’t.

“So,” Merlin says after barely touching the bottle to his mouth. It still leaves his bottom lip wet and Merlin licks it; Arthur quickly looks away. “You’re moving.”

Arthur shrugs. “Yeah.”

“But this is your mother’s place. You love it. You spent years fixing it,” Merlin wonders.

That Merlin knows all that, knows the value the house holds in Arthur’s heart, makes Arthur’s throat click dry instead of forming an appropriate response. Merlin isn’t supposed to know Arthur so much. They’re supposed to be strangers who dated for a few weeks and fell apart. But that’s why they’re here, isn’t it? Because they _weren’t_ strangers. Merlin had gone away, but it turns out he left something with Arthur that was important, and now he’s come to collect it. Ten minutes in Merlin’s presence, and Arthur isn’t sure he can give it back.

“Arthur?” Merlin demands.

Arthur goes to stand by the bar and leans on it with a long breath. “I suppose you don’t read the business news section of _The Times._ ” It sounds pompous even to his ears.

Merlin huffs. “Not regularly, but I’m not oblivious. I heard.”

“There you go.” Arthur smiles. “How much have you heard?”

“You’re no longer the head of the company. Morgana’s the interim CEO. Things are looking gloomy for Pendragon PH. Some politics going on.”

“That’s all?” Arthur asks, trying to sound light.

Merlin frowns. “Well, yeah. The rest are just rumours.”

Arthur stands up straight. “What rumours?”

“That the former CEO, obviously you, had a brush with the law and you resigned. Is that true?”

“Partially.”

“So, you didn’t leave the company on your own?”

“Why would I leave it on my own?”

“You hated that job.” 

“Who told you that?”

“You! Well, you didn’t _tell me_ tell me, but only the blind couldn’t see how miserable you were. Did you actually lose your job, Arthur?” Merlin’s eyes are wide with sympathy. “Is that why you’re moving? Surely, you can afford this place.”

Arthur sighs. “There’s more to it than that.”

“What?”

“Merlin, I can’t imagine you being interested in my financial troubles or whether I currently hold a job.”

Merlin lowers his hands, his mouth turning into a disappointed line. “Don’t be an arsehole, Arthur.”

Arthur twists the cap from his water bottle between his fingers. “I’m sorry. But I think I need some sort of clarification.” He looks up. “What are we discussing here?”

Merlin stays quiet. His expression is a combination of fond and hurt, which makes him look a little silly.

“Sit,” Arthur says, voice soft. He points to the high stool on the opposite side of the bar. “Don’t stand there like you’re holding down the fort. I’m not going to dash out of here in the middle of a conversation.”

“Are you sure you won’t?” Merlin asks with a quirk of his lips.

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

“It’s your house, Arthur,” Merlin reminds him with a soft chuckle. “You can can do whatever you want here, technically.”

“You still didn’t answer my question, though,” Arthur notes.

Merlin takes the chair. “I think,” he says slowly, taking interest in the pattern of the marble counter, “I think we’re discussing us.”

“Not yet, we’re not,” Arthur says. “My house and my job are not us.”

“True. Although at some point…” At these words, Merlin kind of tips forward and presses the palms of his hands to his eyes. “Ugh.”

Arthur slaps his hand over the spinning cap. “What?”

“I think I should tell you a story,” Merlin says, his voice muffled by his hands.

“Okay,” Arthur says carefully. “Now?”

Merlin drops his hands and sighs. “Yes, now. Now. Don’t worry, it’s short.”

Arthur smiles. “I don’t mind.”

“You might mind it, when I’m done.”

“Let’s see when we get there, shall we?” Arthur offers seriously, and Merlin nods.

  

~*~

 

Merlin taps a finger on his head, thinking. Arthur’s heart swells at this familiar gesture, telling him that Merlin’s nervous -- which means whatever it is, it’s big.

“I had a friend. You can say best friend, since we were together for a long time,” Merlin finally starts, and Arthur bites back a question of how _together_ together they were. “We both went to UCL, which was brilliant. I had my scholarship in chem, Gilli was getting his degree in microbiology.”

Arthur’s breathing slow, listening intently.

“We had this idea. To be honest, at this point, I can’t tell you who came up with it first. Although, I could swear, Arthur, it was mine. The very conception was mine.”

Arthur can already sense where it’s going, and he doesn’t like it. He’s already starting to dislike this Gilli bloke, just because of how pitchy Merlin’s voice becomes when he openly doubts himself and his integrity. He nods, encouraging Merlin to continue -- when he’s ready.

Merlin takes a long pull from his bottle, wipes his mouth. “We worked on the idea for eight months straight. Between that and uni, I don’t think we slept at all. It took us another six months and two ruined prototypes before we finally finished one that worked.” Merlin smiles to himself. “The problem was that once we’d tested it, we discovered that it wasn’t working the way we designed it, but while looking for the issue, we find a solution to a completely different problem. It’s actually quite common.” Merlin glances at Arthur, and he nods that he understands.

“It happens sometimes with new drugs,” he says. “You work on an antidepressant, only to find out it’s good for hair growth.”

Merlin stays silent for such a long time after this, Arthur thinks that maybe it’s the end of the story. But Merlin looks too pained, with his hands clasped between his knees, shoulders pinched forward and his head dropped low to his chest.

“What happened, Merlin?” Arthur asks quietly.

Merlin looks up, focusing on him again. “Yes. So. Gilli took the prototype. Took all our research. And he submitted it to one of the science journals. They published it six months later.” He pinches his forehead and shakes his head. “My name wasn’t even mentioned.”

“Oh, fuck,” Arthur says. “Merlin. I’m so sorry. What did you do?”

Merlin shrugs, looking down again. “Nothing I could do. He took it all. I had no proof.”

“Fucker.”

“I know.” Merlin nods. “Will wanted to kill him. I made him swear that he wouldn’t touch him.”

“I’d have found a way to rough him up anyway,” Arthur says firmly.

Merlin chuckles. “Oh, he did. Of course, he swears it wasn’t because of him that Gilly had a fat lip and a limp for a while.”

“There you go. Shit. This kind of stuff will never be not bloody fucked up,” Arthur says, all too familiar with the business of cheating and backstabbing himself. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Oh, well.” Merlin gazes at Arthur with a gentle quirk to a corner of his mouth. “Thanks. That was almost two years ago; it’s all water under the bridge now. I do wish him good luck developing something else. Might take him a while.”

Arthur snorts. “That’s the spirit. Still, I’m sorry.”

Merlin picks up and tips his bottle, acknowledging his words.

They keep silent for a few moments, and Arthur peers at Merlin, who’s sitting with a faraway look on his face.

“Merlin.”

“Yeah?”

“What you’ve just told me… What does it have to do with us?” he asks carefully.

Merlin nods, swallowing the rest of his beer. “Will says I always date arseholes. He says I have no arsehole radar. Most of the time, he’s right.”

Arthur shifts from foot to foot and coughs. “Not the nicest thing to hear about yourself, if this is where you’re going, but I suppose he has a point.”

Merlin leans onto the table on his elbows. “Will’s never been wrong about this, Arthur, never. It drives me mad sometimes, because in everything else, he’s a bloody tosser and just doesn’t know when to shut up.”

“I’m not going to argue with that assessment; I’ve never met the bloke,” Arthur comments.

“That’s the thing,” Merling says. “He’s never met _you,_ yeah? But he has an opinion about you.”

“Right. Something to do with me being a posh wanker with a hidden agenda. Not sure what he’s on about.”

Merlin stares at his bottle without answering, and Arthur taps his fingers on the counter loudly. Merlin flinches and fixes his eyes on Arthur.

“He said you’ll be like Gilli,” he says. “He said that a man like you -- with your position, money, and access -- the only thing you would ever want from me is my brain.”

Arthur’s staring at him blankly. “What?”

“You were nice to me because you got a whiff of the latest design I was engineering, which fit with some new initiatives at Pendragon PH,” Merlin continues, with more force behind his words. “And you wanted to snatch it up.” When Arthur opens his mouth, Merlin quickly adds, “Not steal, but maybe find the right incentive so I’d sell it to you and not anyone else. Pendragon PH is notorious for buying off ideas and patents.”

“Ah. Okay.” Arthur nods grimly. “So, I was filling you up. Figuratively and literally. Right?”

“Something like that,” Merlin mumbles into his empty bottle.

“I see.” Arthur throws his empty water bottle into the rubbish and walks to the window. There, he turns back to Merlin. “And for how long have you thought this of me? When did you figure that?”

“Arthur--”

“When, Merlin?”

“I don’t know… Early on. Maybe… Look, you were confusing, okay? I told you before. I did, Arthur. There were things I couldn’t put together about you. We had a great time together. The best, Arthur. I mean it. But sometimes, I was getting a vibe that being with me was like a chore for you. You’d suddenly lose interest in what we were doing. Wouldn’t talk to me. I felt like you were literally looking through me, like I was invisible.”

Arthur can allow that suggestion, no matter how unpleasant the truth. Obviously, during his high, he’d felt great, chatty, and happy, because Merlin was perfect, being with him was perfect, and everything around Arthur seemed perfect when Merlin was around. And as the effect of the pill was wearing down, he was often lost. Sometimes it happened after their dates; sometimes he wasn’t that lucky.

But now he’s thinking of something else. “The Breath of a Dragon. Was it some sort of a test to see how I’d react?” he asks.

“No, of course not!” Merlin exclaims. “I-- No. But you asked a lot of questions after I told you more about it. Very specific questions: about the topic of my research, details of my ‘know-how’, who sponsors it. I wasn’t sure what to think, and I was already paranoid because Will kept saying, ‘Be careful, Merlin. Be careful.’ Arthur--”

Arthur crosses the kitchen back to the bar. “Why did you stay with me?” he asks, leaning on the counter, searching Merlin’s face for any signs of him being insincere, and so far finding none. “Why stay with me if you never trusted me?”

Merlin tries to say something.

Arthur doesn’t let him, stubborn in his mission to prove the point he’s started chasing. “Or maybe, you, too, wanted something from this posh wanker? You know, with everything I had going, I was useful, wasn’t I? Money, connections, a job offer right after your degree. Fuck,” Arthur groans, shuddering from the possibility any of it could be true. “What a disappointment it must have been for you, after you invested all that time for nothing. Was I at least good at sucking you off, Merlin?”

“Don’t,” Merlin chokes out. “Arthur, don’t.”

“Why?” Arthur shouts. “It goes both ways, right? You must have liked it, judging by how much you _leaked_ for me. Come on, Merlin, throw a bloke a bone here. Since I failed to deliver in every other department.”

Merlin sits still, his back straight, his eyes trained somewhere behind Arthur.

Arthur wants to stop. He wants to stop this madness, he doesn’t want any of it to be real, and he can’t make it so. This reality is not fixable; it’s beyond saving; never was worth it, as it turns out. At least it’s all out in the open now.

“You dumped me as soon as I was down,” he says, feeling so miserable, he longs to drop off the face of the Earth. “I wonder why you came back now, though. Not a month ago, and not a month later. Showed up at the conference today, of all days. I think I know. You had a whiff I was getting my mojo back and came to check it out yourself, right? Might as well see if you can milk this cow again.”

Merlin sucks in a breath, turning his gaze at Arthur, and he looks furious. Flushed cheeks and neck, nostrils flaring, the fire in his eyes can burn cities. Arthur snaps his mouth shut before another word comes out.

“I think I’ve heard enough,” Merlin says, tone so sharp, it cracks like a whip between them. “It’s aces that you have it all figured out about me. Great for you. Glad I could help. Thank you for not listening and stomping all over me.”

Merling jumps off the chair; the empty beer bottle slips from his hands and shatters on the floor. He curses and crouches down to the broken pieces.

“Stop that!” Arthur says, quickly walking around the bar. “Leave it.”

“Liz's visiting her grandkids until Monday,” Merlin mutters as he starts picking up the pieces into his shaking hands.

“You’d know that,” Arthur says, crouching next to him. 

“And you know nothing,” Merlin says, ignoring Arthur’s gaze.

“I know you still hate me,” Arthur replies, voice low.

“Like I said, you know absolutely nothing,” Merlin repeats firmly and hisses, dropping everything he's picked up so far. There’s a deep cut across his palm and it starts oozing blood. “Fuck,” he swears, “Fuck. Bloody--”

“Let me see.” Arthur stretches his hand to Merlin’s.

“Sod off,” Merlin says, jerking away from his touch. “I can take care of myself. Just give me a towel or something.”

Arthur scrambles to grab a clean towel hanging from the dishwasher, and Merlin snatches it from him as soon as he comes within reach.

“I’ll be going now,” Merlin says, wrapping the towel around his palm. “Apologies for the mess.” He carefully pushes himself off his knees.

“Merlin, wait.” Arthur grabs Merlin's wrist and doesn’t let go, although his hold is loose. Merlin’s glaring at their hands without moving. “Please wait.”

Merlin’s face scrunches up, as if he's in pain. “What else do you want? I shouldn’t have come here.”

“No,” Arthur pleads. “Don’t go yet. If you go now, I’ll never see you again. I know it, and I don’t think I can live with that.”

Merlin tugs his hand out of Arthur’s hold and pushes him out of the way with his sharp shoulder -- it seems bony, but Arthur knows Merlin has a good deal of muscle built around his frame.

“Merlin,” Arthur cries out, “I don’t believe a word I said earlier. I don’t! I know it was my fault. I pushed you away.”

“Then why? Fucking, _fucking_ why? That’s all I want to know!” Merlin shouts back. “Tell me why?”

Arthur briefly closes his eyes, looking for courage.

“Merlin, the truth is I don’t even know _what_ I did,” he finally admits and resigns himself to the fact that now Merlin’s going to turn around and leave. And then, it will truly be all over.

“How can that be?” Merlin asks, looking stunned.

“Because I was consistently drugged that month,” Arthur says miserably. “I was losing my mind, Merlin. And whatever I did or said that you’ve taken as a rejection, it was me being sick out of my head. I was not myself. At some point I was worried you weren't even real.”

Whoever says confessing a terrible secret is an incredibly freeing experience and should feel like unloading an unbearable weight off the shoulders is a lying son of a bitch. It's not freeing -- it’s awful. It’s shame, deep and consuming, burning through the insides like acid without a way out. It’s like being flayed and laid out raw to be poked and prodded more, so no bits of that secret can be left unexplored. It feels like the end of the world. 

“Jesus,” Merlin mutters, pale like a sheet.

“Merlin, are you okay?” Arthur chances walking closer to him, once his own body agrees to listen to his command.

Merlin eyes him with irritation. “I’m not going to die from blood loss, Arthur. It’s a small cut. Leave it alone.”

“What if it hit some blood vessel? What if you need stitches?” Arthur insists. “Let me see.”

“Are you a doctor?” Merlin asks, not budging.

“No.”

“Then no, you can’t see. Stop hovering. And stop deflecting.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” Merlin snaps. “You just told me you haven’t spent a day in my presence without being high.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Arthur mumbles.

Merlin cocks his head to the side. “You know they all say that. Are you high now?”

Arthur sighs. “Okay. I deserve that. But no. I’m not.”

Merlin goes to stand by the kitchen table located by the window and beckons Arthur to join him.

They both sit down.

Merlin sighs. “This sounds serious, Arthur. Is this is a sensitive topic? We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Arthur says honestly.

“Are you--” Merlin rubs his mouth, frowning. “Are you talking to anyone about this?”

“Yes, Merlin.” Arthur needs him to know that. This is important. “I am okay. Or I will be.”

Merlin tilts his head, showing that he heard him. “So, you said you were _drugged_. I don’t understand. Can you explain at least this to me?”

Arthur makes a face. “Believe it or not, this is the part of the entire ordeal I can barely fathom.” He darts his eyes to Merlin. “And the other part.”

“One at a time,” Merlin hedges.

Arthur takes a deep breath and exhales. “Can you wait here for a couple of minutes? I’m gonna go get something. Maybe then you’ll believe me."

 

~*~

 

Arthur lays two green pills in front of Merlin. “Here.”

“What’s this?” Merlin picks up one of them and raises it to his eye.

“I’m not at liberty to give you all the details, Merlin, I’m sorry. Please believe me when I say, I have nothing to do with what’s inside those pills, and I have them by pure accident.”

“But you’ve taken them.”

Arthur nods. “Yes, because I believed them to be something else.”

Merlin doesn’t look convinced. “How’s that?”

“One of them is supposed to be a herbal sleeping remedy. Another is a hallucinogen, the effect of which becomes stronger as you take more, and it’s particularly damaging for your brain if you mix it with alcohol.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

“It was a near thing,” Arthur admits. “But really, it’s over.”

Merlin sighs and picks up the other pill and studies it in the light. “Visually, I don’t see any difference. Same size. Same weight. Maybe one’s a slightly darker green.”

Arthur hums. “Yeah, I know. I don’t think they’re the same. I hope they’re not.”

“So, you’re saying that at the time you were taking this one, you thought it was a--”

“Sleeping remedy. I have a serious case of insomnia,” Arthur supplies, determined to share as much truth as he can. 

“And this one?” Merlin asks.

“I thought I was getting the same thing. But it came from a different source. Well, kind of...”

“Why does it sounds to me like there’s some weird mystery going on, and you’re in big trouble?”

“I think I’ve already played my part and am considered out of the game.”

“What game?”

“Merlin, can I ask you something? You can say no.”

“Okay.” Merlin visibly sobers up.

“Is there a way to check the pills and tell what’s inside each?”

“Of course. You can run a test.”

“I can’t. I no longer have access to facilities equipped for that. Or to people.”

Merlin shifts. “So you need help.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything.

“Is this important to you?” Merlin asks.

Arthur nods.

“Maybe I can try,” Merlin says.

Arthur closes his eyes, still considering if he should take it all back.

“I need to warn you, Arthur, I’m not a pharmacist,” Merlin says. “I can’t guarantee accurate results. I can tell you what certain components can be used for, but that’s about it.”

Arthur nods again.

“It will take a bit of time. I’ll have to find a proper lab.”

“So, your little barn hide-out...” Arthur isn’t sure if it’s his place to ask what happened to that.

Merlin shifts his eyes. “About that, Arthur. It wasn't exactly legal -- you understand, right? I decided not to keep it.”

“I know,” Arthur admits. “I know you moved out of there. I was looking for you.”

“You looked for me?” Merlin cannot look more stunned, with his eyebrows practically taking off and his mouth wide open.

“Desperately,” Arthur admits.

“God,” Merlin exhales. “I can't believe you even found it. What--”

“Pyrotech shop. And a mishap with Cedric. I talked to him as well.”

“It wasn’t a mishap. I took a professional job without professional experience and without help. It was a huge risk, but I needed the money. Cedric wasn’t supposed to hire someone he didn’t run a check on. He was lucky he got me.”

“So that’s why you were so elusive,” Arthur muses. “Even Morgana was fooled.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says.

“Your BlueDragon email account. Your phone number,” Arthur recounts. “I didn’t know your address. Didn’t even know your surname.”

Merlin looks at Arthur in disbelief. “I didn’t even realise that.”

“Everywhere I tried, you were gone, Merlin. It was like you didn’t exist.”

“God, it’s awful.” Merlin covers his face with his hands. “I ran.”

“Why?”

Merlin removes his hands. “I know it was stupid. It’s not like it’s impossible to find me.”

“Then why?”

Merlin rocks his head back and forth for a bit. Then says, “I thought about saving it, but then I changed my number…”

“Merlin, what? Saving what?”

Merlin looks heavily at Arthur. “Your voicemail. You left it for me the night after we spoke last. You can’t possibly not remember calling me! Was it the pills?”

Arthur feels heat rushing to his face. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Merlin.”

“Do you want to know what you told me?” Merlin asks, his eyes dark with hurt.

“I don’t know if I do,” Arthur says in a hollow voice.

“I never told anyone. Not even Will,” Merlin says, and Arthur understands.

He appreciates so much that Merlin didn't give his best mate a reason to hate him. He protected Arthur.

“We fought about you,” Merlin adds. "He still doesn’t know what exactly happened. Not that I had a lot of clarity."

“I never told anyone about the pills,” Arthur says, and Merlin nods, his expression speaking loudly of his appreciation of this camaraderie and of the amount of trust Arthur puts in him. “The voicemail. What did I say, Merlin?” he whispers.

Merlin sighs. “You said that if I didn’t want to regret it for the rest of my life, I’d better stay away from you. You said something about being in danger and making people pay. You said I was in the way. It sounded like I’d be an obstruction in the way of your success. I can’t remember exact words now.”

Arthur stands up. “Merlin, you couldn’t possibly believe that. One stupid drunken call.”

“You did slur,” Merlin concedes. “And you’re right, I didn’t believe it. I even thought it was some sort of a prank at first. But then, the next day--”

“I wasn’t picking up.”

“No,” Merlin says. “You weren’t. I went to your house, but you didn't open the door. I texted you. And texted you. Then I started calling. Three days straight. You never picked up. And then I left you a nasty message. I was angry. I did hate you.”

Arthur nods. “I understand.”

“I called again later, Arthur, to apologise. I learned about your job, and I thought maybe that was what it was all about, which was bullshit. You hated that job. But your voicemail was full. I went to your house again. Liz wouldn’t talk to me and wouldn’t let me in. You didn’t want to see me, Arthur. And that’s when I believed you.”

 “Liz never told me you came by,” Arthur says.

“Did you ever ask?”

No, he hadn’t. It hadn’t even occurred to him.

"I still waited, you know?" Merlin says in such a low voice, Arthur barely hears him, but when it dawns on him what Merlin’s saying, the words wash over him, spreading like a warm blanket.  

"How did you find out about the conference?" he asks, curious.

Merlin mumbles something Arthur doesn't catch.

"What?"

"I said, I have you on Google Alerts," Merlin says louder, this time not looking away.

A slow smile breaks on Arthur's face. "Are you stalking me, Merlin?"

"Fuck off, Arthur." Merlin visibly struggles not to start smiling himself. "Google Alerts are legal."

"So, what did you think?" Arthur asks, suddenly nervous. "About my presentation today."

"Who said I was there?" Merlin gives him an innocent look.

"You were so." Arthur nudges Merlin's foot.

Merlin kicks back. "Fine. Your programme of helping low-income patients worldwide is aces. I was very impressed."

"Finally." Arthur grins. "The words I never thought I’d hear from you."

"Yes, well. You haven't been exactly stellar," Merlin mutters, going back to studying his hands on the table.

Arthur has no response to that.

“So." Merlin clears his throat in a minute. "All this mess, and it’s all about these little green pills?” He places them on his palm.

“There’s more than that, Merlin. A lot more than that. But I can't have you involved in that part.”

Merlin makes a face. “I’m already involved.”

Arthur’s heart does a slow, torturous somersault in his chest. “Merlin--”

“I’m not saying we’re--” Merlin starts.

“No, of course not,” Arthur agrees right away.

“But I’ll help you with these two little nasties. I hope I can.”

“Thank you, it would mean the world to me.”

Merlin nods. “I gathered.” He looks around the kitchen and fixes his eyes on the clock on the wall. “I should go. It's getting late.”

“Yes, I’m sorry.” Arthur looks at him. “Merlin, I mean it. I’m sorry for everything..." 

He kneels before Merlin's chair and Merlin makes a surprised sound in his throat. "Arthur--"

Arthur looks up and Merlin leans in a little, as if they're magnets pulled together with an impossible-to-resist force. Their eyes are very, very close; Merlin's deep-blue ones are wide open.

"But most of all, Merlin," Arthur murmurs. " _Merlin_. I regret letting you go.”

Merlin touches Arthur's hair and quickly pulls back his hand. For a moment there, he looks like he’s going to cry. “I’m sorry you did, too.” 

At the entrance door, Arthur brushes over Merlin’s hand. “Are you going to be okay? Let me call you a taxi. Or I could drive you.”

“No, it’s all right. And your tub on wheels always makes me queasy.”

“It was not a tub on wheels!” Arthur argues with longing in his voice.

“It was too. Wait. Was?” Merlin raises an eyebrow.

Arthur glances away. “I sold it.”

Merlin laughs. “What did you buy? Something equally obnoxious?”

“No. Something more comfortable for weak bellies like yours.”

“Is that so?” Merlin tries to hide a pleased smile, but Arthur catches a glimpse of it, and hope spreads in his chest.

“Plenty of space in the trunk, hey, and legroom,” Arthur advertises.

“Some other time, Arthur,” Merlin says, and Arthur believes that promise. “I’ll call you to tell you what I find,” he adds.

“Please take care of yourself,” Arthur says. “Merlin,” he calls when Merlin’s already walked out. “I’m glad you came today. I’m really glad you did.”

Merlin smiles.

 

**End of Part III**

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made a few minor tweaks to this chapter since the original posting, just for the purpose of clarification. Thank you for reading!

**  
PART IV**  

 

**August 30, 2013**

  

“Hello?”

Arthur could say he doesn’t recognise the number on the screen -- after all, he never entered it into his contacts -- but that would be a lie. He knows it by heart, even though he hasn’t used it once.

Merlin.

He holds his breath for a few seconds and prays his voice doesn’t break into a falsetto from the nerves when he starts speaking.

“Arthur?” Merlin calls again, and Arthur hears his voice hitching a little.

He smiles. “Merlin?”  

“Oh, hey. Yes, it’s me. Is this a good time?”

Ridiculous, ridiculous man.

Arthur clears his throat and says in an expressly lower voice, “Of course, Merlin. It’s good to hear from you.”

“I said I’d call,” Merlin says.

“How’s your hand?”

“It’s fine. The towel is ruined, though. Sorry.”

Arthur huffs a soft laugh. “I don’t care about the towel.”

“I have some information for you.”

“You’re fast.”

“Yes, I-- You said it was important, so...” Merlin trails off.

A surge of affection rushes through Arthur. “Thank you. I-- What did you find?” he asks.

“You were right. The tablets are different. Very. One’s essentially a placebo. There’s some glucose, olive oil, some simple herbs, dill for coloring.”

“Really? Doesn’t even have, I don’t know, melatonin?” Arthur wonders.

“Nope.”

“But my sleep improved when I was taking it.”

“A pure placebo effect, I’m afraid,” Merlin says. “I hope you didn’t pay too much for it.”

“No, someone was feeling charitable,” Arthur mutters, thinking.

“Well, I can see why; it didn’t cost them much. Was it someone you trusted?”

“And the other one?” Arthur asks, ignoring the question.

Merlin makes an exasperated sound. “The other tablet is a wonder in itself,” he says. “The structural formula of this little beauty is something I’d like to spend a little more time on, but based on what I’ve found so far, and considering that psilocybin… Have you heard of psilocybin?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Of course you have,” Merlin intones. “So, it being one of the main components, I think I can guess what the intention was behind this product.”

“What is it?”

“Essentially, someone intended to make a happy pill. You take it once, you’re feeling a bit like magic; you take it twice, the world turns up in pretty colors and you think you’re the shite. You take it consistently for a week, and you’re so far in space, you might as well never make it back.”

“But psilocybin is not addictive,” Arthur says.

“Ah,” Merlin says, “so you did a little homework yourself.”

“Not the way you think, Merlin.” Arthur can’t hide he doesn’t like Merlin doubting him. “I didn’t find out until it was almost too late and I had an IV sticking out of my arm.”

“Jesus.” Merlin pauses for a moment. “This is so fucked up, Arthur. I am so _angry_ with you. This drug is dangerous, it’s illegal, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’d be safer eating shrooms in pure form; at least you’ll know what you’re subjecting yourself to. I know very little about MHRA regulations, but I can’t imagine this formula ever being approved. It’s absolutely unpredictable.”

“So what, then? If it’s not addictive, and from what I’ve learned, you build up tolerance rather quickly… What about other ingredients in the formula? Can they cause addiction?”

“No, they’re just designed to enhance the experience, so to speak,” Merlin answers.

“Ahhhh.” Arthur can see the catch now. Of course.

“You figured, didn’t you?” Merlin asks.

“Yes. The more you take, the larger dose you need. You just need a reliable supplier and loads of cash. And hey, you can stop whenever you want -- it’s easy. You just don’t want to.”

“You got it. Arthur. Bloody hell. What have you gotten yourself into?”

“It’s not me. Merlin, I honestly, honestly wish it were me.”

“Will you please tell me what’s going on?”

Arthur thinks hard. Can he load this on Merlin? Should he? They’ve barely had a chance to touch on the problems between them. The trust between them is barely a thing. But who else can he go to? Leon? Yes, Leon, too. Except Leon is biased. He’s been snapping and growling lately, every time Arthur even implies anything negative about Morgana.

“Arthur, talk to me. If something happens to you--” Merlin's breathing is harsh in his ear, and Arthur can’t ignore the concern in Merlin’s voice. How can he push him away again and say it’s for the best? Merlin won’t forgive him this time.

“Merlin, I am fairly certain that my sister’s in big trouble.”

“Morgana?”

“Yes, and I think we’re about to lose the company. I hope I’m wrong and we are not too late.”

“Oh fuck,” Merlin breathes.

“Are you sure you want to be involved in something like this?” Arthur asks. 

“I don’t think you can do without me, actually,” Merlin answers.

“Cheeky, as usual,” Arthur pretends to grumble. “How do you think you can help me, exactly?”

“By keeping an eye on your arse, so you stay out of trouble,” Merlin says, sounding absolutely serious.

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur drawls. “Did you just say you admire my arse?”

“I’m hanging up now,” Merlin says quickly.

And he does.

 

~*~

 

Speaking with Leon is becoming a special brand of torture. It should be a good sign that he’s not around the house as frequently; it means he’s no longer concerned about Arthur’s well-being as much, and so his attention’s been shifted. Except now it’s singular in nature: Morgana. 

Arthur starts to believe there’s something broken in Leon’s motor functions responsible for speech, because he could swear sometimes Leon means to say things like, “My workout was brilliant today,” or, “Perce is running late,” or, “This apple is nice and ripe,” and all that comes out of his mouth is about Morgana being brilliant, Morgana running late, and -- Lord, have mercy -- Morgana being nice and ripe. Arthur doubts it even registers with him.

In all seriousness, Leon has every reason to be concerned: Morgana’s been wearing herself thin. It’s nothing drastic that meets the immediate eye, but he can see the change in her when he meets her every other Sunday for lunch. Paler skin, hollower cheeks, and the eyes -- no longer vivid-green and bright with excitement. Something’s eating her up, and Arthur’s afraid he knows what it is.

“Arthur, you have to speak with her,” Leon tells him in a hollow, miserable voice on Saturday evening, looking like he wants to be anywhere but here.

Arthur has a good idea where Leon wants to be, except he can’t: Morgana’s banned him. Quite seriously threatened to slap him with a restraining order if she ever sees his face in a proximity closer than three hundred yards. That’s a bit of a distance for a person who takes his duties as a security guard seriously.

Arthur very much agrees with Leon. He is pro-talk. They should definitely talk about a few fine points of their rocky relationship, so Arthur can tell her that he isn’t _angry_ with her, he _understands_ , and he knows now that she meant no harm. He doesn’t want Morgana be afraid, he’s on her side, and if only she had the inclination to drop the never-ending act of bickering and avoidance, they could finally discuss something that matters -- family.

Leon looks so worried, so tragically lovesick while trying to keep a professional front, Arthur almost tells him about the pills and his suspicions, but he changes his mind at the last moment, because it’s _Morgana_ , and she was expressively clear about keeping Leon away.

He decides to give her one more chance.

 

~*~

 

In a fit of particularly fierce longing -- and well, because he isn’t breaking any spoken or unspoken rules -- Arthur sends Merlin a text:

_Becoming a member of the Academy Awards, step by step instructions._

He helpfully supplies the link, hoping Merlin gets the internal joke from their very first date, and tries to ignore how his heart goes into a brief asystole every time he thinks he hears his mobile ding with the response. It goes on like that all day.

The reply arrives very late, when Arthur’s already in bed with his hands under the pillow, blinking slowly at the standing-still fan on the ceiling.

He rolls onto the side to pick up the mobile and almost can’t believe his eyes when he sees:

_Did you actually read the instructions? I don’t think you qualify._

Arthur smiles.

_Not for me, I don’t have a single creative bone in my body._

He waits.

_Are you fishing for compliments?_ the next text asks.

Arthur chuckles.

_I wasn’t. But go on._

After a few minutes of silence, Arthur starts to panic, unsure what he said wrong. He was flirting, yes, he was definitely flirting. Too soon? Shouldn’t have ever? But Merlin started it. It was Merlin, who--

_I miss you, Arthur,_ the next text says, and Arthur wants to weep.

He spends forever thinking of the right response, because _God, Merlin_ _, you_ \--

And that’s what he ends up sending by accident, pressing the wrong button, and there’s no way to take it back. So he just sends another: _Merlin, please_ , not sure what he’s even asking.

And only when his mobile starts ringing, does he know: he wanted to hear Merlin’s voice.

 

 

**August 31st, 2013**

 

The most bizarre thing is, Arthur actually likes spending time with Morgana, and he’s fairly sure that if Morgana digs very deep -- digs very, very deep, _deep_ down -- she’ll find that she feels the same. 

Alas, she hides her feelings very well, and they haven’t made a shovel long enough.

It’s Sunday noon, and Morgana walks up to their now-usual table -- as if Sunday lunch is their thing of dear tradition -- and glances at the bottle of La Ladonne 1985 waiting in the bucket of ice, before giving Arthur an arched brow. For this one, Arthur had to call and order in advance.

“Don’t look at me, you’re paying,” Arthur says casually, taking the bottle out of the ice.

“From your account,” she retorts.

“It’s serious business,” Arthur agrees. “I’ll allow it.”

“Allow it? Not for another two weeks.”

Arthur keeps his facial muscles in check as not to show how much he can’t wait for the court hearing. And then, he will be free.

“Enjoy your reign, My Lady.” Arthur smiles and tips his glass of water to touch her glass of 800-quid wine.

She’ll text him later, foaming at the mouth and calling him rubbish, after she receives the bill.

Some day, he hopes, she’ll get it, and she’ll stop dragging him around the most pompous, most expensive restaurants in London, to which she has to make reservations weeks in advance. Then, he’ll take her to the best kebab place on Earth.

“Something’s different about you,” she says, putting a delicate piece of her lobster “parfait” in her mouth. 

“Yet you haven’t changed,” Arthur offers, sipping more of his water.

Her eyes don’t move away from his face as she takes another bite and chews slowly.

“I know that look,” she says finally, smile tugging one corner of her mouth.

Arthur expects her to say something snide and prickly, but she doesn’t. The lines of her face soften, and Arthur can see for a brief moment the glint of mirth flare up in her eyes. That’s the Morgana he loves and wants back.

“And I know _that_ look,” Arthur tells her.

“What are you talking about?” she asks, her tone is back to frost this time.

“That look,” Arthur repeats. “When you think about doing something really stupid and then change your mind.”

“Because it’s stupid?” she asks.

“Because you’re a scared little girl,” Arthur deadpans, and the last hint of a smile ghosting her face vanishes completely.

Arthur knows her too well not to recognise the struggle she’s battling at the moment, having difficulty deciding whether she’d rather storm out, start an argument, or finish this meeting in silence. He knows which one he’s aiming for.

He picks up a fork and starts gently tapping it against his glass, producing annoying pitchy sound. Morgana shrugs one shoulder and resumes picking at her appetiser, so he taps louder.

“I know what you’re doing, Arthur,” she says calmly. “It won’t work.”

“What am I doing?” he asks innocently and adds a little more wine into her glass.

She doesn’t touch it. “We’re not nine anymore, and I don’t care if you break that glass.”

“Even if it’s from some family’s precious china cabinet and costs a fortune?” Arthur keeps tapping on the glass, knowing that she will give in if he keeps doing this for long enough.

“Well, it’s not.” Morgana glares at the glass and then at Arthur. “Stop. That.”

“I’ll stop if you stop.”

“What. Are you talking. About,” Morgana hisses through her teeth.

“I already know everything,” Arthur tells her.

“Would you stop?” she shrieks and snatches the glass from Arthur, water spilling all over her chest.

She gasps, grabs a napkin from her lap, and starts pressing it to the wet spot. When the waiter jumps to the rescue, she yells, “Get away from me!” and throws the napkin in his face.

Yep, storming out it is. Perfect.

Murmuring his apologies, Arthur throws all the money he has in his wallet on the table, which is not nearly enough to pay for the wine. Bit him in the arse, hasn’t it? He presses his wallet into the waiter’s hands, praying he keeps it until Arthur comes back and doesn’t call the coppers on him.

“I have to help my sister. Hysterics. Bad break-up,” he mutters. “I’ll return with the money.”

Apparently, all the waiter hears is, “Break-up?” He smiles and nods.

Poor, stupid sod, does he really think he has a chance? If Arthur doesn’t go after her right now, _Morgana_ won’t have a chance with Morgana.

He runs to find her before she falls apart.

 

~*~

 

He catches her when she’s already yanking on the door of her car, and he grabs her by the elbow.

“Let go of me, Arthur,” she hisses, “Let go, or I’ll scream.”

“I’ll scream, too,” Arthur informs her, almost cheerfully. “I’m the nutter here, remember? I can be very convincing. Let’s scream together.”

She doesn’t make a sound, but still makes another attempt to free herself of his hold.

“Morgana,” he says calmly, almost soothingly. “Give me the keys.”

“No.”

“Give me the keys. Don’t even think about throwing them away. It’s your car, so I don’t think you want to deal with the towing, do you?”

“What do you want?” she asks, still not turning to him.

“Give me the keys. I’ll drive the car,” Arthur says.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“Home.”

“Which one?”

“I only have one home, sis.”

“Why?”

“I can’t afford more.”

“You sodding prick.” She twists under his hand and turns around. “Stop doing this and tell me what you want.”

“The keys, Morgana. We’re going home, where we’ll talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“I know. And I didn’t want to be lied to by the only sister I have. Yet, here I am. Cheated out of everything that was important to me.”

“You’re not getting it back,” she spits.

“I never said I wanted it.”

She opens her mouth for another retort and blinks. “What?”

“I don’t want the company back,” he repeats, slowly. “I never wanted it to begin with. I know I should’ve voiced it a long time ago, but it doesn’t mean I deserve to be betrayed by the only family I’ve got.”

She inhales sharply.

“Will you please give me the keys?” he asks, shifting away from her a little and waving his hand, waiting.

Morgana presses the keys into his palm. He escorts her to the passenger seat and makes sure she buckles up.

 

~*~

 

“What do you mean, you don’t want the company back?” she asks after a long silence, looking stunned and pensive in her seat.

“Not everyone is born to run big corporations, sis,” he says, looking at the road. “It’s still my company; I just want to develop a different part of it.”

She bristles. “So, you still want it?”

“As an independent division. Granted, it’ll be global, and you’ll barely see me. It fits my vision,” Arthur says.

“Oh, you have a vision now.” She laughs. “Did you think about me?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if I don’t want you to manage any part of PPH?”

“I don’t think it’s your choice. In two weeks, I’ll be released from the court order and can resume my duties.”

“They voted you off the board. You’ll never be appointed CEO again. What duties?”

“Then they’ll vote me back in, and you’ll help me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you need me. You’ll bring me back, we’ll divide the shares equally, and we’ll clean up the mess. Together.”

Morgana takes a long time to respond. Arthur isn’t worried. She’ll come around. Morgana may be stubborn, but she’s also smart. She’ll come around.

“Odin’s blackmailing me,” she says into the window. She says it in such an even voice, like she’s commenting on the weather, that Arthur doesn’t process the meaning right away.

“Morgana--”

“He’s blackmailing me, and I don’t know what to do.” Morgana turns to him, her cheeks wet.

Arthur curses.

 

~*~

 

 They’re in Arthur’s kitchen, and Morgana’s sitting at the bar, holding a cup of hot tea in her hands. She’s been staring into space, her eyes dry, for the past ten minutes. Arthur isn’t rushing her.

“Remember the whole ordeal with me running away to Paris?” she finally says.

“Do I ever,” Arthur says, nodding. “I thought you were dead.”

“Awww,” she whispers with a small smile, looking down into her cup. “That was the week when I started hating Uther with a passion.”

Arthur thinks he understands. He hated Uther, too, for being a blind, greedy coward.

“I don't think I'm better than him.”

Arthur walks to Morgana, and, taking her gently by the chin, says, “Yes, you are. You just can’t do everything alone.”

It doesn’t look like Morgana hears him. Her eyes are fixed somewhere on Arthur’s forehead; her lips are moving.

“Morgana,” he calls.

She focuses her eyes on him. “Do you know why Uther told everyone I’d lied, and he still kept Odin around?”

“Why?”

“Because Odin knew who my real parents were. Odin knew and threatened Uther he’d tell me.”

Arthur feels like he’s been hit over his head with something very heavy. “What?”

“For whatever reason, Uther didn’t want people to know I was his daughter, and Odin exploited his weakness. Odin had _a book_ of small and big things he held over Uther. Before me, Odin blackmailed Uther for years.”

“How did he know about you?”

Morgana shrugs. “Does it matter? He knew. And sucked out of Uther everything he could safely take.”

Arthur shakes his head. “But Father did tell you.”

“Practically on his deathbed, yeah.”

“This is horrid. I can’t believe he’d do that.”

“PPH was always Uther’s favourite child,” Morgana says with a tilt of her head. “An affair with his wife’s best friend practically after the honeymoon… Probably not the best way to build a reputation in business.”

“I don’t care. I’m sorry, Morgana. I’m sorry.”

She turns her face to him. “Yeah.”

Arthur scrubs his face, trying to put his thoughts together. Remember the details he knew from the files. "When did it start?" 

"He first hinted early June. Just comments about my being clever little girl and how I better be friends with him. Then, things went pear-shaped with you, and he laid out his cards."

"What does he want?"

A grimace distorts Morgana's features, but she doesn't lower her eyes. "He wants your full share, Arthur. He wants fifty-one percent."

Arthur sneers. "Yeah right, he can keep dreaming." 

Morgana doesn't react, her gaze at him only turning heavier. "I'm out of time, Arthur."

“I don’t understand," he says. "What does Odin have now to hold over your head? Everyone knows you’re Uther’s daughter.”

Morgana doesn’t answer, but there’s this suspended moment in time, when he watches as she lowers her head into her hands, exposing the long curve of her neck, and he can see her pulse beating rapidly under her thin, almost-translucent skin, and he realises that it’s not just anguish speaking loudly in her body language. It’s guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

“So, he’s never been stalking you, not really, has he?” Arthur asks. “He was fishing for something. Until he found it... _The pictures_.”

Morgana shudders.

“Which one, Morgana? No, don’t tell me. I know.” Arthur curses loudly. “Stay here.”

When he comes back, it doesn’t look like Morgana’s moved an inch. He opens the folder in front of her, spreading the pictures on the counter, and points to the ones with Morgana sitting in the car. “This one and these two. Right? This is what he’s holding against you. That you were meeting with Morgause.”

Morgana’s never looked as small -- like a ruffled-up, freezing-in-the-cold sparrow on the edge of her seat. She glances at the picture and nods.

"Okay. Okay." Arthur heaves a long breath. He’s going to go out on a limb here. This is his last hope. “So you have a thing with a… person who’s our direct competitor. I mean, it’s not the end of the world. Not ideal, but if you haven’t been… uh… conspiring with Morgause against PPH, I’m sure people can look the other way.”

Morgana starts laughing. “A thing? A thing with Morgause? Don’t you know anything about me?”

Arthur freezes. “What, Morgana?”

“I do not have _a thing_ with Morgause. She’s my sister, Arthur! My sister. We share a mother.”

“So, half-sister,” Arthur clarifies dumbly.

“Imagine that. Half, just like you and me,” she says snidely.

Arthur’s not going to dwell on how much it hurts that Morgana sees him as no more important than the person she probably hadn’t even heard about up until some months ago. Or maybe not. Maybe she’s known about this sister for a long time and hasn’t mentioned her.

That seems unlikely, though. Morgana’s been living with them since she was seven -- he’d have known. Morgana used to tell him everything.

“So what’s the problem, then? It’s not a crime to see your sister once in a while,” he says. “What were you doing to be so afraid?”

“Arthur, please, you’re smarter than that,” Morgana says, fluttering her eyes shut.

“I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt here,” Arthur says. “But all right, I’ll ask directly. What was in the bag?”

Morgana groans and buries her face in her hands.

“Mor _gana_.”

“Pills,” she says, voice muffled.

“What kind of pills?”

Morgana raises her head, glaring. “Illegal drugs, Arthur. What do you think?”

“I was hoping for, I don’t know, _diet_ pills?”

Morgana snorts. “You would. But no. Illegal drugs, they were.”

“We’ll come back to that later,” he promises, his voice gloomy. “I want to understand. How does he know what was in the bag?”

“Because he has it.”

Arthur doesn’t expect that answer. Not at all. _So, more than one bag? Jesus Christ, Morgana._

“How many bags have you exchanged?”

“Just one.”

“And how do you know he has it? Did he show it to you?”

“No, but I know.”

“Morgana, please. Think. You realise he can be bluffing.”

Morgana snorts. “I’m not oblivious. I wish I could say he was bluffing. But the bag with the pills went missing. No one knew where I kept it. I didn't keep it at home. He must’ve followed me and bribed my housekeeping staff to get it. I don’t know.”

“Where did you keep it?”

“What’s with the questions, Arthur? Why does it matter now?”

“Where did you keep it?” Arthur repeats, with force.

“In my bedroom in the country house. Locked away. I didn’t even know it was gone until it was too late.”

“What’s inside? Three white bottles?”

Morgana looks at him in surprise. “How’d you--”

Arthur raises his finger to wait again and leaves.

“Is this the one?” he asks, coming back to the kitchen a few minutes later.

Morgana grabs it and opens it so fast, she rips up the paper. “Yes, that’s it. Oh my god, Arthur, how did you get them? Where did you--  Did you buy Odin off?”

That would be the easiest solution of them all. Arthur slumps against the wall, feeling empty, and she probably reads it on his face.

She makes a small choking sound. “Arthur, no,” she whispers. “No, no, no, no. You didn’t.”

Arthur considers trying to make light of this situation for Morgana’s sake, but he’s so tired. He’s been fighting for so long, he simply does not have any energy left.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, closing his eyes. “You didn’t do it. I did.”

“You took the pills and you didn’t tell me?” Morgana shrieks, getting to her feet. “You’ve been _taking_ the pills?”

“Not anymore, obviously.” He opens one eye. “But yes, I helped myself. You were busy being drunk. And then you were just busy being awful.”

“At the party? You picked the lock and took them at the charity ball?”

“Not all of them, just enough for you not to notice. The rest I removed on the way from hospital. Totally impulsive move.”

“I want to kill you right now,” she says, biting her lips, her eyes furious. “I want to kill you, quarter you, burn you to ashes, and then burn you again so I can hear you scream.”

“Well, technically--”

“Shut the fuck up, you idiot. You _idiot_!” She’s in his face, breathing so hard, he thinks she might hyperventilate. “All this time, I thought you were driving yourself to destruction with drugs. I thought you were manically depressed, or something… All this time.” She punches him in the shoulder. “You idiot!”

“Ow,” he whines quietly.

Morgana starts pacing. "That bastard did bluff. He had me so easily. Oh, what I want to do to him." She stops and looks back at Arthur. “I can’t believe this. You--” She takes a deep breath, clutching at her neck. “All that craziness, Arthur. You were sick, and I--”

“Morgana, you didn’t know,” Arthur says again, trying to keep his voice leveled. “It’s over. I’m okay.”

Her eyes widen. “The hospital,” she whispers. “They tested you. Did they find anything?”

He smiles. “They did. I didn’t disclose the source, don’t worry.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That I was doing shrooms.”

She stares at him. “This is going to be on your record forever...”

He shrugs. The alternative was unacceptable for him.

“Why, why did you take them? You couldn’t possibly know what was in those bottles,” she asks again.

And this, for some reason, is funny to Arthur. “Guess what? I thought I was helping myself to a herbal remedy.”

Morgana takes a few steps back with a look so devastated, Arthur’s afraid he’ll have to call for help.

“Hey.” He reaches out to her. “Sis, we’ll figure it out. Hey, come on.”

Her face crumples, and she wavers. For a second Arthur thinks she’s going into his arms, but no, she rushes past him and leaves the room.

  

~*~

 

When Morgana locks herself in the guest bathroom and refuses to open the door, Arthur calls for re-enforcement.

Leon walks into the house, looking like he’s ready to murder someone, and asks, “Where is she?” When Arthur points and starts explaining that he’s tried, but nothing’s worked, Leon doesn’t listen. He walks through the hall and right into the bathroom door. Shoulder first. Right into the door, promptly breaking it down.

Arthur could never do something as impressive as that. He also wonders if the potential buyers are going to be as impressed with the state of the doorframe.

A few moments later, Leon walks out of the bathroom with Morgana in his arms -- like a _goddamn superhero_. Except normally, Morgana's not a damsel in distress. Normally, Morgana doesn’t cry, either, but Arthur’s pretty sure that’s exactly what she’s been doing while running the water in the shower. Like he’s deaf and can’t hear her.

Leon leaves Morgana in the bedroom and quietly shuts the door behind him.  He nods to Arthur that he wants to talk. Right.

Arthur’s so fucking tired of talking.

~*~

 

 Arthur tells Leon everything. Sparing no embarrassing details, he gives him the best version of the truth he can remember. It’s frustrating, how many black holes he hits as he tries to recover the events leading up to that night. It’s also not easy, but he needs Leon if he wants to have as close to the whole picture as possible.

Leon knows Morgana and Morgause are siblings, and it almost makes Arthur explode. Something so big, and Leon never shared it?

Leon cocks his head to the side and does not look impressed. “Mate, did you actually read the file on Morgana I gave you?”

“What file?” Morgana asks, appearing at the door of Arthur’s home office at the most inconvenient time.

Leon runs a hand through his hair. “Arthur wanted a full profile for each member of the board. You included.”

“Is that so? And you didn’t tell me?”

Leon jerks his chin up. “When would I have done that? While you were threatening me with a restraining order?”

Morgana drops her eyes to the floor and steps from foot to foot; she’s in a bathrobe, feet bare, and her hair’s damp. Sometimes Arthur forgets how petite she actually is.

She nods and disappears quietly for about five minutes and comes back fully clothed, her hair in a loose ponytail. With her purse on her shoulder, she looks like she's about to leave. There's something so different about her, Arthur stops saying what he was about to say -- which was to ask where the hell she thinks she's going -- and that's when he realizes what it is -- Morgana has no makeup on. She is pale. Even her lips have barely any color; her dark brows stand in contrast to the rest of the almost-translucent skin of her face and her long neck. Now Arthur can see what she doesn't want anyone to see -- how young and vulnerable she actually is, and how very, very tired.

She purses her lips and, looking away somewhere, anywhere but at Arthur, says, "Arthur, they just called me from L’Atelier. You left your wallet there.”

Arthur remembers. “Oh, crap. Yes. I’ll pick it up.”

She lingers for another minute. “Arthur? I need those pills back now.”

“Why?”

“They belong to me.”

“Absolutely not.”

Morgana stares at him heavily. “Give them back. All of them.”

Arthur turns to Leon for support. Leon sighs. “Do it, Arthur.”

“Fine. Go to jail, see if I care…” he says, taking the bag out of the kitchen cupboard. “This is fucked up. We’re not done talking.”

Leon clicks his tongue.

“What?” Arthur snaps, pushing the bag into Morgana’s hands.

Of course, Leon assumes his usual blank stare.

Morgana zips her purse and turns to Leon. "Could you please take me home?" Her voice is small, but that’s just Morgana being Morgana when she wants something.

Leon’s faster than Arthur can blink. "Morgana's car keys?" he asks, and, following Arthur's darting eyes, grabs them from the bar.

"Ready?" he asks Morgana.

She nods with a soft, "Thank you," and Leon bloody smiles, as if she’s just professed undying love for him.

He squeezes Arthur's shoulder on the way out, like this is all nothing and they’ve just finished their book club meeting, and follows Morgana into the hall.

Arthur curses.

Superhero? More like a _goddamn traitor!_

  

 

**September 3rd, 2013**

 

Merlin meets Arthur at the coffee shop not far from the kebab joint they used to frequent, simply because the area is familiar to both of them, and it feels to Arthur like it means something, as if they’re kind of orbiting around “their place” and closing in on it.

"And then he just throws her over his shoulder like fucking Tarzan and leaves my house!" Arthur says, shaking his hands in outrage.

Merlin chuckles. “Did you say you don’t have one creative bone in your body?”

"You’re laughing. Neither of them are returning my calls, Merlin!"

Merlin shrugs. "Probably shagging like rabbits."

Arthur shoots Merlin an unhappy sidelong glance. "They couldn't wait until she told me all the bloody details? I’m dying here."

"You know how it is.” Merlin’s smile turns gentle. “People wait and wait, until they can't anymore. And then they do something about it."

Merlin's knee brushes Arthur's under the table, and Arthur commands himself not to read anything into it. Even if it wasn’t by accident, he’s not rushing this thing between them so he can bugger it up again. He thinks there’s a thing as he watches Merlin smile at him with a kind of small, private smile, and then gently blow on his coffee before taking another sip.

"What?" Arthur asks.

"Nothing," Merlin says, tipping the cup to his mouth again.  Looking away is almost impossible for Arthur.

"Liar. What?" he insists.

Merlin’s eyes grow softer, the blue in them deeper, and he asks, "Arthur, are you _courting_ me?"

"What?" Arthur's cheeks flush with warmth. He actually feels warmer all over. “No?” He looks away.

"You bought me my favourite trashy magazine on the way here."

"It had Kesha on the front cover. You love Kesha."

"You ordered my coffee just the way I like it and had them remake it because the order was wrong."

"It should be two pumps of caramel, not three."

Merlin’s knee brushes against Arthur's again. He takes another sip from his cup and sighs. "Yeah. Tastes just right."

Arthur muffles a sound in his throat, because fuck, that mouth again.

Merlin leans a little forwards. "Arthur," he calls, " _Arthur_."

Arthur blinks. "Hmm?"

Merlin presses his knee to Arthur’s and keeps it there, warm and solid -- as real as it comes. "Arthur, I'm seriously, _seriously_ okay with not waiting anymore, and I'd really like to skip to the part with the shagging, please," Merlin says.

Arthur snaps his eyes to a very nervous-looking Merlin. "Fuck," he whispers, sliding off his chair a little so both their knees knock together. And Merlin’s hand is somehow there, grabbing him just above his left knee and holding him with an intent that leaves no questions in Arthur’s mind and no air in his lungs.

He chokes. "Mer--"

Merlin’s thumb skims over his inner thigh. "About the throwing me over your shoulder part... I'm heavier than I look.” His thumb makes another maddening circle, scorching Arthur’s skin beneath his trousers.

Arthur slides his hand down to clutch Merlin’s, to press it firmer to his leg, although this is torture, _torture_ \-- and not nearly enough. He frantically looks everywhere and then at Merlin with a plea. "God. Really?"

Merlin nods. “Yeah. But I'd rather not do it in a loo."

“No, of course.” Arthur pushes the chair out, "Fuck. _Merlin_. Yes, I--"

He pulls Merlin to his feet. Merlin reaches out to him, closes his hand over the back of Arthur's neck and pulls him closer, his mouth near Arthur’s ear. Arthur almost faints from the heat of Merlin's fingers against his skin.

"Your place is closer,” he murmurs. “Think we can make it?"

"We better fucking hurry." Arthur doesn't care if anyone's watching. He grabs Merlin’s face between his hands and presses his mouth to Merlin’s; it tastes of caramel and it feels feverishly hot. "Come on. "

Merlin grins like a loon.

  

~*~

 

Merlin pulls himself up on one elbow and stares at Arthur in a bit of a daze.

“What?” Arthur asks, feeling self-conscious about it.

“You’re different,” Merlin says.

Arthur frowns. “How so? Good or bad?”

“I think I kind of saw this -- you-- even when you… When you weren’t yourself.” Merlin sighs. “That’s why I was so frustrated. Because I thought I saw _you_ … Arthur, I’m sorry.”

“Why? It wasn’t your fault.” He turns to the side to face Merlin. “I can agree that the drug part was unexpected and just fucked up, and I wish Morgana would _fucking take my calls_.” He almost growls at the end. “But the rest… The fact that I had no qualms with self-medicating myself and keeping quiet about it, even if I thought those were harmless herbal pills...” He shakes his head.

“Did you really think that?” Merlin asks.

“That they were harmless? Well, generally, whatever you put in your mouth has one effect or another, no matter what.”

Merlin snorts.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Merlin.” He turns serious again. “I want to be honest about this, so don’t think I’m looking for excuses. But I don’t know. Sometimes I think I suspected that there was something more, but by the time it was a serious issue, I wasn’t in a condition to be objective.”

Merlin nods.

“Merlin.” Arthur pulls Merlin down to lie on his belly and hugs him, draping himself across his back, and Merlin settles under him with a soft sigh, pliant. “Merlin.” He pushes his face into the nape of his neck. “I don’t want you to think that it means something more, if it doesn’t for you. It’s all right. I think.” He mouths Merlin’s skin behind his ear. Merlin moans into a pillow and shifts.

“I want you to know that even when I wasn’t sure about anything else, I still knew to look for you everywhere. Even if I doubted everything else, I didn’t doubt you. The only reason I stopped looking was because you said you didn’t want this -- well, _me_. And I didn’t want to force something if you didn’t think it was there. I couldn’t do that.”

He buries his nose in the softness of Merlin hair, breathing him in, while sliding his hand down Merlin’s side and wrapping his fingers around his hip. He finds that little birthmark behind Merlin’s ear, circles it, wiggles his tongue against it, and Merlin shudders with a needy sound that slashes him to the bone.

He shifts to cover Merlin’s entire body with his, still not fully erect, but already getting there, and grinds against him. Merlin pushes into Arthur without hesitation -- eager, even.

“Already?” Arthur asks, voice gone from the intense rush of want washing over him from head to toe, and God, _yes_ \-- he is too, already. 

Merlin turns his face to the side, panting. “Yes, Arthur, please. Don’t make me wait.”

  

~*~

 

He’s woken up by loud voices from somewhere downstairs. Groaning, he flops facedown into his pillow, muttering, “Merlin, what is it? Come back here.”

“Arthur, Arthur, you better come down here quick!” Merlin yells.

Arthur shoots out of bed, as if chased by a swarm of bees. Jumping on one foot and then the other, he pulls his boxers up, nearly falling over.

“Shite.” He runs downstairs, expecting a crowd of people, at least.

Merlin stands in front of the telly, with the remote in his hand and his mouth slightly opened.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asks.

“Shhhh, listen, watch!” Merlin says, pointing to the telly.

 

_Morgause Gorlois, owner of Gorlois Group, arrested this morning, is allegedly responsible for manufacture and distribution of over 1.5 tonnes of  unregulated drugs containing Ketamine and Psilocybin. This does not include the amount seized during a recent raid leading to the arrest, investigators have said. Meanwhile, the drugs were intended to be smuggled to the U.S., south Asia and Hong Kong._

_Allegedly, Gorlois Group manufactured the drug after receiving the orders from Cenred Lot, with both parties being linked to the bust of a number of underground labs throughout UK. Cenred's currently holding a VP of Brand Strategy position at Pendragon PH, a London-based pharma and specialty chemicals company._

_Morgana Pendragon, the interim CEO of Pendragon PH, provided no comment._

_At this point, Pendragon PH Corporation is not linked to the manufacturing and distribution of the unregulated drug, pending investigation._

 

Separate footage shows Morgause and then Cenred in handcuffs, being led to the Old Bailey court building. Morgana’s photo blinks on the screen for a few seconds and Arthur gasps, then lets out a long and elaborate swear.

Shutting off the telly, Merlin turns to Arthur. “Wow.”

Arthur takes a deep breath.

“Merlin, I’m very sorry, but I think you need to go home now. I expect a barrage of media interest and plenty of nasty questions. I doubt I’ll be able to avoid any negative coverage, and I doubt I’ll be able to keep the paps out of my private business. This is going to get ugly.”

Merlin, wearing one of Arthur’s t-shirts, which makes Arthur’s heart stutter and ache, because he wishes he could have Merlin like that always -- listens to him with a frown, and his frown deepens as Arthur goes on.

“Merlin, I promise, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep your name from ever going to the press. I am so, so sorry. Please, you have to go.”

Stepping in front of Merlin, Arthur takes the remote out of his hand, dropping it on the floor, and takes Merlin’s face in his hands and kisses him. Deeply, adoringly, and already mourning the loss of it.

Merlin moans, then shakes his head while still being kissed, and pushes him away.

“Arthur, you absolute prat, stop that!” he demands. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“But--”

“And that’s that. What are we doing? We need a plan,” Merlin suggests firmly.

Arthur opens his mouth again, but Merlin’s already climbing the stairs.

They dress in a hurry, tossing their clothes to each other as they pick them up from the floor. At the same time, Arthur’s trying to dial his mobile.

"Leon, call me as soon as you get this. I don’t care if you’re with the Queen of England, call me now."

“Still not picking up?” Merlin asks.

Arthur dials the next number.

Voicemail again.

"Morgana, call me back. I am not mad. Morgana, just please fucking call me. We’ll figure it out."

“Jesus.” Arthur rakes a hand through his hair, looking around. “Okay.”

He dials the next number.

“Viv.” He lets out a relieved breath. “Is Morgana in her office? Where is she? Who? When? Is she okay?”

Arthur absorbs the information while Merlin stands in the middle of the room, listening to Arthur’s every word.

“Viv, listen,” Arthur says. “You know the door in the alley between the main buildings? Can you get into my office? There’s a key in the bottom left drawer. I’ll be outside that door in about twenty-five minutes. Be there. I need to get inside. Call me if anything changes.”

Merlin looks at him expectantly.

“I’m going to the office,” Arthur says.

“ _We_ ’re going to the office,” Merlin corrects him. He hands Arthur his sock.

Arthur looks at himself and huffs.

“There could be press outside already,” Arthur mutters, carefully parting the curtains and peering outside the window. “Nothing so far.”

“Where’s your car?”

“Outside.”

“Well, then we better make a run for it.”

 

~*~

 

 They make it to the car, Arthur leading the way, without any trouble. Arthur peels away from the kerb and makes a sharp turn, set to reach the office within record time.

He glances at Merlin, who’s quietly smirking, looking out the window.

“What?” Arthur asks.

Merlin smiles. “You traded your tub for a guzzler.”

“It’s a good, practical car, with plenty of cargo space. Look at all that room you have for your ridiculously long legs.”

“It’s a guzzler.”

“There’s no _pleasing_ you, Merlin,” Arthur says.

Merlin stretches his legs, grinning.

Arthur starts dialing again. When it goes into the voicemail, he growls:

"Morgana, pick up the damn phone. I’m going to the office. I’ll see you there. Call me, dammit!"

“Is she in the office?” Merlin asks.

“Yes, her PA says she’s been in the office all day. No one dares to even knock. But there are people in Cenred’s office. And the employees have been asked not to touch any documents while they’re being copied. I don’t like it.”

“Do you think she’s involved?”

Arthur honks at someone and curses.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know, Merlin. I shouldn’t have let her leave… Oh god.” Arthur brakes so suddenly, they fall to the front. The car behind them screeches to a stop, and the driver honks at them loudly.

“Shite. Arthur, what’s wrong?”

Arthur’s trying to catch his breath; his knuckles are white from gripping the wheel so hard. “Merlin, she took the pills. She asked me to give them back. And I--” Arthur can’t breathe.

“Back? They were Morgana’s?” Merlin asks.

Arthur sends him a panicked look. “Doesn’t matter, okay? Doesn’t matter. Jesus.” He groans.

Merlin opens the window. “Arthur, do you want me to drive?” he asks quietly.

Arthur stares at the road for a moment, then shakes his head. “No. No, it’s all right. I hate that I don’t know anything. I hate that I can’t protect her.”

He pushes the gas pedal again, although his legs are shaking. Merlin puts a hand on his thigh.

“Maybe she doesn’t need it.”

Arthur glances at him. “What do you mean?”

Merlin shrugs. “Maybe she isn’t the damsel in distress who needs saving after all.”

“Her name and our father’s company’s name are tied in connection with some serious shite. I can’t stand by and watch. And she has the pills. What if they found them? What if they arrest her, too?”

“Then you’ll get her the best lawyers you can buy in this city.” Merlin looks at him seriously.

It grounds Arthur: Merlin’s hand, heavy and reassuring, and his voice, calm and steady.

“Rational.” He feels the corner of his mouth lift in a smile.

“Can be,” Merlin agrees.

Arthur hums.

“I’m glad you’re here, Merlin,” he says after a while.

 

~*~

 

Viv opens the door as soon as Arthur raps his knuckles against it. She eyes Merlin with suspicion.

“Vivien, Merlin. Merlin, Vivien,” Arthur introduces. “Is the service lift working?”

Vivien nods.

“Go back to your desk, Viv. Just give me the keys.”

“Why are we doing this, Arthur?” Merlin asks while they’re waiting for the lift, which is the slowest thing on Earth.

“I need to talk to Morgana,” Arthur says, taking his mobile out and glancing at it again. “Where the hell is Leon?”

“No, I got that part. But why sneak around? You could just ask Viv to pencil you in and come in as a visitor. Even if you were fired.”

Arthur sighs. “There’s so much you don’t know yet, Merlin.”

Merlin leans against the wall. “Looks like we’ve got time,” he says, eyeing the display above the door stuck on number seven.

Arthur opens the door with the word “Stairs” on it and wordlessly gestures for Merlin to go through.

“Jesus,” Merling huffs when they reach the sixth floor. “How many more?”

“Eleven,” Arthur pants, holding onto his side. This is what he gets for avoiding telling the truth.

“I don’t think I like you very much right now,” Merlin declares, and attacks another set of stairs.

“You and me both,” Arthur agrees under his breath.

  

~*~

 

Viv lets them in Morgana’s office without a fuss and closes the door behind them. Arthur takes the office in, looking for any signs of disorder. Nope, everything seems in place and exactly how Morgana likes it. Even her laughing Buddhas with the shiny bellies are still set in the perfect row where they usually are. And the air still smells something awful.

Morgana looks up at them from her screen.

“Who do I have to fire?” she asks.

“Hello, Morgana,” Arthur says, wiping his forehead. “So nice of you to return my calls.”

“My mobile was confiscated,” she responds calmly.

Arthur shuts his eyes for a moment, still catching his breath. “And Leon?”

“His entire team volunteered whatever information they can provide. They have a lot to offer,” Morgana says.

“You still could’ve called me,” Arthur grumbles.

“It didn’t occur to me that you’d be expecting it.” She shifts her eyes to Merlin. “Good afternoon.”

“Ah, yes. Morgana, this is--”

“ _Not_ Cedric, I recall.” She arches her eyebrow at Merlin. “Merlin. Right?”

“Hello. Um…” Merlin takes a step forwards. “About that.”

“It’s all right, Merlin,” she says with a twitch of her mouth. “You lied by omission; we’ll consider it a white lie. And my brother tells me you did a fantastic job.”

“Oh, right. Thanks.”

“Did your _non_ -employer at least pay you the fee?” she asks.

Merlin nods. “He did, thank you for asking.” He starts to look a little gobsmacked.

“Another one bites the dust,” Arthur mutters. “Am I the only one immune to your nonexistent charm?”

“You’re not making any sense, as usual, Arthur,” Morgana deadpans. “So, how can I help you?”

“How can you--” Arthur chokes on his own exasperation and has to take a moment to calm down so he doesn’t throw something at Morgana’s head. “Okay.” He turns to Merlin. “Could you please check with Viv outside and see if you can... I don’t know, get some food, maybe, downstairs in the cafe?”

Merlin searches Arthur’s face, and Arthur nods slightly. A smile touches the corners of Merlin’s mouth. “Okay.” He leans in and kisses him softly on the mouth. “Text me when you’re done.”

He turns away from a rapidly blinking Arthur. “Morgana. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure is all mine,” Morgana echoes.

“Oh.” Merlin turns around when he’s already at the door. “I don’t have to tell you that if you hurt my boyfriend I’ll have to stab you with a rusty knife. Possibly repeatedly. Do I?” he asks.

Morgana curves her lips, looking ridiculously pleased. “No. He’s my _brother_ , Merlin.”

“Exactly,” Merlin says, and leaves.

 

~*~

 

“Wah, wah, there _’s no chance_?” Morgana asks, half-mocking, when Arthur settles on the chair by her desk with a glass of water.

“Oh, stuff it,” he retorts. “I was despairing.”

She snorts. “Clearly.” 

“You,” Arthur points at her, “are one to talk. You awful, awful harpy. I’m not through with you.”

Morgana sits up straighter, no longer smiling. “There’s nothing else to discuss. And I will not be bullied.”

“I’m not the one being blackmailed!” Arthur shouts and pounds his fist on the table. “I’m not the one caught up in some bloody drug-ring scheme, you stupid girl!”

“I’m not the one stuffing myself with a drug that has no imprint code! Who’s stupid now?” Morgana yells back.

“I trusted you!”

“Well, you shouldn’t have,” Morgana snaps. “Especially me.”

“Tell me what’s going on,” Arthur demands. “Now.”

“Arthur,” Morgana sighs, “I really have no time for this. I have MI5 in the building, going through our records.”

“And you’re also linked to a drug bust, along with your sister Morgause.”

“That’s right. So as you can see--” she says stubbornly.

“Are you serious?” Arthur asks. “When is it going to be a good time? Tomorrow? In a month? Or when you’re in jail?”

“Is that your ultimate wish, brother?” Morgana asks, tilting her head.

“Do you know me at all, Morgana?” Arthur asks, tired. Of fighting, of having been forced to think the worst of his own family, of constantly needing to prove something to someone. “That’s not what I want at all. Please, tell me what’s going on so I can help you.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, he knows immediately, watching her eyes flare up with a dark gleam. “Help me? Where were you eight months ago, when I needed it?”

“Are you going to always throw this in my face? How badly I handled Father’s death?”

“Have you ever cared about how _I_ handled it?” she asks, voice menacing. “Or do you think you have some special grieving right I’m not entitled to?”

Arthur feels as if he’s just had a bucket of ice water thrown in his face.

“Morgana--”

“No, you asked. I’m ready to tell you.”

She pauses.

“I learned about having a sister right after Uther’s death. Mum had her when she was sixteen and gave her up for adoption. You know, classic story.” 

“Did Morgause know about you?”

“I doubt it; she was surprised and delighted. I think she was genuinely happy I found her.”

“What a peach.”

Morgana smiles. “If you think I’m a harpy, brother, you haven’t met Morgause.”

“Oh, I’ve met her,” he says darkly. “Morgana, I wish you’d stayed away from her. If I’d only known sooner...”

“I know,” Morgana says. “I know now.”

“What happened?”

Morgana shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about my relationship with her.”

“But Morgana--”

“I am no longer speaking with her, Arthur,” Morgana says firmly. “We’re done.”

Arthur stares at her. “Done? By virtue of her being in jail, or...?”

“It’s so complicated that I need time to work through it, but believe me, I’ve had nothing to do with her for a while.”

“But it’s too late anyway, isn’t it? Everything is ruined.”

“No, it’s not. Arthur, like I said, it’s complicated.” Morgana purses her lips.

“Look.” Arthur sighs. “If you don’t want to talk about what happened between you two, that’s fine. I think I’m getting the picture. But this is beyond some dysfunctional family issues. Your freedom is on the line. PPH is being basically decimated. Cenred, that fucking bastard! He used us." Arthur groans. "He knew every brand, every line, every issue that came with launching a new product. And so did Morgause, as it appears. But this is beyond breaking a non-disclosure agreement, isn't it?"

"It seems so," Morgana agrees.

"Seems so?" Arthur sets heated gaze on Morgana. "He used his position at PPH to mingle with the right people. The private investors we've been approached by and have rejected over the past several years because they simply seemed too fishy to us, I can bet you anything that sleaze was tipping Morgause off. He's linked to shite I can't even wrap my head around yet. Underground labs? Of course they needed private investments! The more fishy, the better. And now our names are being mixed up with that... God, Leon warned me to watch out. Morgana, did you suspect anything at all?”

As Morgana listens to Arthur, the range of emotions on her face goes from irked to resigned and then to contemplative.

She bites her lips, staring blankly somewhere in front of her, then sighs.

“Arthur, look.” She presses her fingers to her forehead. “All right. Let me just…”

She walks to the door of the office, looks outside, and says something to Viv. Closing it again, she comes back to her desk.

“Right,” Arthur says, looking down at his mobile, buzzing with the text from Merlin:

_There’s a sushi station here in your cafeteria. They make it fresh right in front of you! This is so strange. And very posh._

Arthur bites the corner of his mouth to hide a smile. Oh, Merlin. Please never change.

He looks up and sees Morgana making an annoyed face at him. His composure back, he asks, “So?”

“So.” She sits down, picks up one of her little Buddhas, and starts rubbing his belly.

Arthur waits, normally impatient when it comes to Morgana, but here, now, he knows to give her time to gather her courage and thoughts.

She finally speaks. “When Uther died, I was angry, okay? So very angry. At him. At you. How could he not treat me equally, even after his death?”

Arthur nods, because he understands. He already figured and decided this for himself a long time ago. It was easy, actually. “I should’ve fixed it right away, Morgana. It’s on me. I’m sorry. I’ll make it right.”

She cuts him off with a, “ _Now_ you’re offering,” and Arthur lowers his head apologetically. 

“I was over the moon when I found Morgause. She was the outlet for my frustration and my rage. She understood me, being adopted and all. She listened and told me everything I needed to hear.” Morgana pauses. “It just kind of happened. One moment I was just having occasional weekday lunches and Saturday dinners with my sister, swapping notes on our respective businesses without going into much detail, and a few months later, it was all about how I’m being shunned by the Pendragon family, and how I deserve more. I deserve _everything_ , if I want it. And how PPH should be mine and what we could do together if we joined forces. Oh Arthur, the plans she had. Big, ambitious plans. And you know who was in the way?”

“I have a good idea… At least I was considered a serious threat. I’m flattered.”

“Oh, the silver lining.” 

“Did she give you the pills?” Arthur asks.

“Not right away, of course; when she thought I was ready to push you down without having regrets -- yes.”

“And you were going to do it? You were ready to watch me drive myself nuts and humiliate myself?”

“Not going to lie, I entertained the idea. But you know, I felt like strangling you with my own hosiery half the time before I met her, so it’s neither here nor there. Don’t tell me you don’t feel the same sometimes.”

“Oh, I’d do it right now if I had any hosiery at my disposal,” he says.

Morgana snorts. “You’re down on your luck as usual, little brother.”

“See, right now. It does feel like a good idea right _now_ ,” Arthur says.

“I hated you,” Morgana says quietly, fixing her gaze somewhere on the table, and Arthur stops chuckling. “I hated how you could be late to every single thing, and it was fine. How you could walk into a room full of men, and they’d jump right up and wouldn’t stop shaking your hand. You talked bullshit, and they nodded. It could never happen to me. I worked hard, and guess how many of them still wouldn’t offer me a handshake or any praise?”

Arthur has nothing to say to that, because it’s all true. This is a man’s world -- still is -- and the change is too slow for Morgana. He agrees absolutely: it’s too slow.

“So yes,” Morgana continues, “For a moment there, I did dream about seeing you going all batshit crazy and clearing the way for me. Because I could handle it better than you, and I wanted everyone to see it. Morgause only fed into it, and I let her.”

“Why didn’t you do it, then?”

Morgana gives him the _look,_ then sighs. “I understand how you felt all this time. You thought I was going to drug you, and something just didn’t let me finish the job.”

“You’re saying I was wrong?”

“I’d never, never do that to you. You’re a jerk, dear brother, you’re a grade-A arsehole, but you’re my jerk. You’re my family.”

“Morgause was family, too,” Arthur points out.

“For five months, four of which she plotted how to get rid of every Pendragon and take over Pendragon PPH. ”

“Shit, Morgana,” Arthur groans. “This is so fucked up. And she almost succeeded.”

“Oh, Arthur. You have no idea how mad at you I am for taking those pills. I can’t, I _can’t_ believe you did this and didn’t tell me.” Morgana shakes her fists at him.

Arthur spreads his arms. “So you weren’t the only one with secrets.”

“I didn’t want to keep this from you,” she says with a pained expression. “At some point, I thought we were good. I did the right thing, and though I hated to see my dream slipping through my fingers -- you were a lousy, lousy head of the company, brother -- but at least you were safe. And then you went nuts on me.”

Arthur huffs. “Surprise!” he sing-songs, and Morgana reaches over the table and cuffs him across his forehead. “Stupid sod.”

They look at each other and both sober up.

Morgana sighs. “Arthur, I believe Morgause is a deeply troubled person. At first, I thought she was just a very driven businesswoman, and I admired that. It took me some time to realise that she was plagued by very dark demons. I think it went back to some complicated history between our families, but she was out for blood, and she was incredibly determined. She looked forward to seeing you fall, and she genuinely believed I wouldn’t mind.”

“You could’ve walked away then, Morgana,” Arthur says.

“And let her find someone else to do it for her?” Morgana cries. “I couldn’t. That’s how I ended up with the bag of the banned drug in my bedroom and specific instructions how to use it on you. See, the main beauty of psilocybin is that it doesn’t stay in the system for long. Four to six hours, and it’s gone. After that, the only trace you may find is through hair testing. You have to know what you’re looking for.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that, thank you,” Arthur says darkly.  

Morgana nods solemnly. “She started watching me like a hawk. At some point I realised that there was someone at PPH who snitched on me, because she kept dropping little details about my day in the office only an insider would know. It drove me crazy, because I couldn’t figure out who it was.”

“Obviously, _Cenred_. Piece of shite," Arthur says through his clenched teeth. "I should've listened to Leon. I should've dug deeper.”

“Yes, him," Morgana says. "Sneakiest person I know. Out of desperation, I found herbal tablets that looked very similar and gave them to you, just so at least there was a pretense of you taking something from my hand. I also wanted you to finally admit you had issues to address. If nothing worked, you might have agreed to see someone.”

“So much for my bloody _chi_ ," Arthur mutters. "Why did you keep the other pills, Morgana? Why didn’t you get rid of them right away?”

“Because I thought it would be my way out! I wasn’t sitting idle, Arthur. I was going to bring her down, but I needed sufficient proof.”

Arthur rubs his forehead, feeling like crying. “And you kept all this to yourself? Why didn’t you talk to me?”

Morgana laughs bitterly. “Do you remember yourself at that time? You were a miserable insomniac who acted like the world stopped just because you were unhappy. Can you honestly tell me I could’ve relied on you?”

Arthur looks away. “No, you’re right.”

“Oh, really? Nice of you to admit it now.” Morgana sneers at him. “Anyway. By the time I finally had the information I needed, I was so fed up with both you and Morgause, I was ready to go on a shooting spree. Lord knows, I didn’t ask for any of you as my family.” She lifts the corner of her mouth as if to soften the blow of her words, but it doesn’t help him. Arthur feels utterly miserable -- he deserves everything Morgana has said about him.

“I’m sorry, sis. Really. I am.”

She nods. “Come the charity ball, she wouldn’t leave me alone. She kept following me and staring and staring. And really, I’d had enough. I had a drink -- or three -- and I just couldn't keep my mouth shut anymore. She’d pushed me too far already. So I told her I was no longer interested in what she had to offer and asked her to get the fuck out of my life. You were supposed to be next, little brother, I was so done. Then, I got spectacularly drunk.”

“Oh, I’ll never forget that,” Arthur says. “You still owe me for my loafers, by the way.”

“So those were yours?” Morgana groans. “I should’ve known! Leon never wears anything Italian.”

“You should hire him and give him a salary so he can afford it. And you.”

“That’s unlikely.”

“The salary or you?” Arthur asks, raising his brows.

“You’re being nosy, sod off,” she snaps.

“Fine, so, are you telling me Morgause went away, just like that?”

“Oh, of course not. She hounded me, and I had to hide in my house for two days. Fortunately, I’d already secured enough valuable information to promise it’d go to the police if God forbid anything happened to me, and she finally left me alone.”

“That easy?”

“What I had on her was serious.”

"I don’t know, Morgana, I’m still trying to decide whether you’re incredibly brave or spectacularly dumb,” Arthur says, almost fondly.

“Oh, the thrill of living,” Morgana mutters, getting up. She pours herself a glass of water.

“So, let me sum it up,” Arthur says. “You had Morgause's sisterly affection and her killer plan for world domination. You had Odin blackmailing you for being an accomplice in Morgause’s plans for said world domination. And you had Cenred as a snitch and a leach at PPH, watching your every step. Did I get it all?”

“I didn’t know about Cenred then. I learned about his ties with Morgause just like you -- from the press,” Morgana says. “But yes, sounds about right. And I had you, don’t forget. A curious _child_ who couldn’t keep his sticky fingers away from my private stash of illegal pills.”

“Oh, I’m just a bonus,” Arthur scoffs. “Don’t mind me.”

“Shut up. Seriously, Arthur, just shut up.”

Arthur stops smiling.

 

~*~

 

“What are we going to do, Morgana? On top of all that crap, we have the agency in the building. How much do they have on you? Please tell me you at least got rid of the pills,” Arthur pleads.

“Arthur, I wanted to make sure _you_ didn’t have them in your possession, just in case something goes wrong,” Morgana says earnestly.

“In case what goes wrong?” Arthur asks, frowning.

“The gentlemen down the hall who are currently foraging through Cenred’s belongings are here because of me.”

Arthur blinks. Then, he tries to say something, and the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a sound resembling a hiccup.

Morgana throws her head back and laughs.

“Shut up, shut up,” Arthur says, still stunned. He leans closer, assessing her with a completely different eye. “Morgana.” He lowers his voice. “Don’t tell me you’re working for the agency or something. Like some bloody 007.”

She giggles. “You are so adorable. Adorable and stupid. Heavens. How do I deserve this treasure?”

“Stop mocking me! Tell me what’s going on!” Arthur cries, feeling very put out.

Morgana sighs. “I would've gone to them sooner, if not for Odin. It was only when you gave me the pills back on Sunday that I had everything I needed. I had to do it.”

Morgana sits down again; she doesn’t lower her eyes from his face, her expression pleading.

Arthur shifts. “You could’ve at least told me you were going to them.”

“I couldn’t tell you, Arthur; you’re still under a court order. I couldn’t put you under further scrutiny,” she says, resigned. “But it turns out, the agency’s been making circles around Gorlois Group for a long time. Stepping forward was a good thing -- I was able to show PPH had absolutely no connections with their manufacturing and trafficking drugs, but my last two days have been complete hell. Utter nightmare. I don’t think we’re in the clear yet, but I’m confident they won’t find anything. Damage is done, though. I have a lot of work ahead of me.”

"What if Morgause talks about the pills?" Arthur asks.

"For all they know, I took them because it could be the evidence against her, and now I've submitted it, along with other facts."

“Did you tell them about Odin?” 

She shakes her head. “No. Then, I'd have to tell them why I waited for so long and what I was afraid of, and…” She twitches. “He still knows too much about Pendragon family. It'd be dragging all of us through the mud, not just me.”

“No, you’re right, not a good idea.”

“So unfortunately, we can’t touch him right now.”

“I get it,” Arthur says. “We’ll figure it out soon. I want to talk to Leon. You know," he narrows his eyes at her, "you should’ve trusted at least him, Morgana. He’d protect you. Hell, he tried his best anyway.”

Morgana tugs on her hair. “I couldn’t, Arthur. I was ashamed. And scared I’d put you two in danger.”

Arthur smirks. “So, how much does he know now?”

“Everything,” Morgana says immediately. “I told him everything. Arthur, he’s so… he’s so…” Her eyes cloud with a dreamy, distant look.

Arthur throws his hands up. “Please, no details! Keep details to yourself.”

Morgana kicks him under the table. “Don’t be a jerk.”

His mobile buzzes with another message from Merlin:

_No rusty knives in the kitchen in this place. What kind of business are you running here? I’m appalled. I’m bringing you a sandwich._

Smiling, Arthur starts typing a reply, but someone’s knocking on the door and Morgana yells, “What is it?”

When the door opens and Merlin peeks inside, the grin that stretches Arthur’s mouth is so wide, Morgana mutters, “Oh brother, you’re a goner.”

Arthur isn’t going to argue with that.

 

 

**September 10th, 2013**

 

Morgana isn’t kicking or screaming, but she shows every ounce of her displeasure when Arthur opens the door to the kebab joint and gestures at her to come in. Leon chuckles behind them.

Merlin’s already waiting at the reserved table for four, waving them over with a smile. Arthur almost skips, rushing to meet him.

They hug, Merlin skating his mouth over his jaw and stopping at his ear with a raspy whisper that unfurls like a hot ribbon below his belly. “ _Arthur_. Missed you.”

“What is this place?” Morgana asks, and Arthur can tell that only her good manners keep her from turning her nose up when Leon holds out a chair for her to sit down.

“Just give it a try, Morgana,” he murmurs, brushing a quick hand over the hair cascading down her back.

“I took the liberty of ordering already,” Merlin announces and nods to the waiter with a smile.

With her mouth open, Morgana watches the table being filled with large plates, brimming with steaming pilav rice, meats, mixed grilled vegetables, and pita bread. The food’s fresh off the grill, still sizzling and invading the air with a rich aroma of spices.

She sniffs the wine in her glass with such trepidation, Arthur can’t help a laugh.

“What?” she snaps. “I have no idea what they put in there.”

“It’s house wine,” Merlin supplies helpfully, and Arthur grins, slotting his leg between Merlin’s under the table and watching Merlin blush a little. 

“Yes, Morgana, don’t you know, it’s all about pairing. Just eat, sit back, and enjoy the cuisine. God knows, this is as close to home cooking as poor Leon’s going to get, shacking up with you.”

Morgana sends him a look that could flatten a city.

“Odin’s on the run,” Leon says, already chewing, and everyone snaps their heads to him.

“What?” Morgana squeaks.

“Yep, cleared out all his accounts and made a run for it,” Leon confirms. “He’s no longer in the country. He’s no longer on this continent, if my sources are correct.”

“How do you know?” Morgana asks, sounding equal parts hopeful, annoyed, and relieved.

“Like I said, I have my sources. I’m the head of security of one of the largest corporations in Europe, am I not?” Leon asks, casually sipping his wine.

“That you are,” Morgana smiles, suddenly interested in her wine as well.

“Well, I say good riddance,” Arthur announces, sticking his fork into the largest piece of Barg on the plate and bringing it to his mouth. “I’m sure you’ll know what to do if he ever decides to set foot back in British territories.”

Leon nods. “You can bet on that.”

“Any other exciting news?” Arthur asks.

“I’m throwing Uncle Rav a retirement party next week,” Morgana shares conversationally, looking at him.

“With all the money he’s sneakily made on PPH stock, he should pay for it himself,” Arthur grunts. “I hope he retires somewhere on a desert island.”

Morgana laughs.

“I think I have a buyer for my house,” Arthur announces after they’ve consumed enough kebab and grilled vegetables to feed a small village. Even Morgana looks softer around the edges and more relaxed.

“You’re still going for it?” she asks. “I thought…”

Arthur considers it for a moment and says, “No, I’m doing it. I’d like something smaller. And closer to UCL.” He glances at Merlin, who’s looking down at his food, a private smile hidden beneath his sharp cheekbones.

“Besides,” Arthur says, “I need the money for our joint venture with Gwen. We finally found a party interested enough in us to invest.”

“You found a party,” Morgana grumbles. “More like stole one of my most valuable executives. I won’t forgive you for that for a long time.”

Arthur smiles. “I made Tristan an offer he couldn’t refuse. Besides, we’re not going too far.”

“I’m still not giving you your old office back, dear brother.”

“Why? Because you’ve taken it?” he asks.

“No, because it comes with the _job,_ ” Morgana deadpans.

“Hear, hear,” Arthur says genuinely and clinks his glass of water to hers. “Cheers.”

She picks it up and tips with a nod. “I can’t believe Tristan agreed to your mad idea.”

“Well,” Merlin says, placing his fork down. “There’s no great genius without a mixture of madness.”

Morgana rolls her eyes. “Of course you’re praising him; he’s currently groping your arse under the table.”

Arthur chokes on his water. “Morgana!”

“Actually, that’s Aristotle,” Merlin says calmly.

“Aristotle’s groping your arse?” Morgana inquires without a hint of a smile.

Merlin turns to Leon and says with the sincerest face, “Good luck, mate.”

Leon doesn’t answer, smiling gently, but they all know -- with this beautiful, stubborn, brilliant, and exasperating woman, he’s going to need a lot of it.

 

 

**September 20th, 2013**

 

“Hello, Doc.”

“Hello, Arthur, how are you today?”

“I’m well, thank you. Solid eight.”

“Eight is a good number -- what do you think?”

“I think so, too.”

“How did this week go?”

“Well, I have some good news, Doc.”

“Do share.”

“I have an offer on my house. I’m moving out.”

“Since you consider it good news, I’ll say congratulations. Found something new?”

“Not yet, but I’m looking for a small flat, just a couple of bedrooms. I’m not completely settled about the house, to be honest.”

“Why?”

“Just… It was my mum’s, you know? She grew up in it. Am I making the right decision?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I am. The estate’s always been too much for me.”

“There you are, then. You’ll be fine. What’s the other news?”

“Well… Looks like you’ll be seeing me a lot less, Doctor Alator.”

“The hearing went well?”

“Very well. I’m back on my own two feet, Doc.”

“You have been for a while, Arthur. This is just an official confirmation, that’s all.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Is something bothering you, Arthur?”

“Not at all. Just thinking… It’s only been few months. Feels like years. I’m ready to move on.”

“You should start making new plans, then.”

“Oh, I have plans. And I think I have someone to share them with.”

 

 

**February, 2014**

 

“Longest two weeks of my life,” Merlin complains to Arthur over the phone.

Arthur turns onto his side in his lonely bed, his mobile at his ear, and chuckles softly. “You wanted this, Merlin, don’t you complain to me now.”

“Of course I wanted it! Pyrotech training, Arthur. Largest program in the world,” Merlin explains. “I’ve learned so much here, and I already have a new idea.”

Arthur likes riling Merlin up a little and hearing how his voice hitches with excitement, but he misses the spark that immediately catches in his eyes, and that glow about his whole face when he talks about something he loves.

“I miss you,” Merlin adds after they stay in comfortable silence for a minute. “You’re too far away.”

“But sunny California, Merlin. _Disney._  Right?” Arthur reminds him, though loving the quiet note of longing in Merlin’s voice.

“Oh Arthur, their works are spectacular,” Merlin says. “Amazing. I knew they would be. But this is something else.”

“Yeah.” Arthur sighs. He wants to be there next to Merlin, right now. He wishes he could’ve gone with him two weeks ago, but it was absolutely impossible with his current mad schedule. He’s still making it happen, though, just a bit later.

“Is your flight still at seven tomorrow?” Merlin asks.

“Yes. Straight to L.A. Arriving at five in the evening, local time.”

Merlin pauses and then mutters something Arthur doesn’t catch.

“What, Merlin?”

“All right, I’ll tell you.”

“What did you burn this time?”

“Nothing! Shut up,” Merlin says. “Don’t be annoying when I’m trying to tell you something important.”

Arthur doesn’t respond; he just waits.

“I have a surprise.”

A chuckle bubbles up in Arthur’s throat. “ _Mer_ lin, it won’t be a surprise.”

“I can’t, I can’t hold it! Let me tell you!” Merlin begs. “We’re going to Vegas, Arthur! I’m renting a car.”

“That should be interesting,” Arthur mutters, who’s never driven on the right side of the road and can bet Merlin hasn’t even thought about this particular obstacle. He decides not to comment, so as not to spoil Merlin’s mood. They’ll deal with it when the time comes.

“It will be!” Merlin continues, babbling. “We’re staying at the Bellagio. And I already have tickets for the next evening to the Cirque du Soleil show.”

Arthur turns onto his back and looks at the ceiling in the bedroom of his new flat. He blinks. “What?”

“You’ve never heard of Cirque du Soleil, Arthur? The most spectacular circus in the world?”

“Circus?” Arthur asks. “A circus…Oh, _Mer_ lin, you’re bloody perfect.”

Arthur starts laughing.

 

**THE END**


End file.
